


Something in the Shadows

by PatchOfLight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Angst, Dean can be a jerk sometimes, F/M, Fangirls, Geek Dean, Loss of Virginity, Maybe even Cas, Mutual Pining, Nerd Dean, Pining, Possible cameo from Crowley, Romance, Sam is the sweetest guy ever, Sexual Tension, Smut, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2018-04-02
Packaged: 2018-07-16 10:03:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 44
Words: 48,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7263505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatchOfLight/pseuds/PatchOfLight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i> You sit in an ambulance, a blanket around your shoulders. You watch cops walk about, talking to each other and over the radio. You bury your face between your knees, and hug yourself tight with your arms.</i><br/> <br/><i>You hear someone clear his throat, and you look up.</i></p><p>  <i>Two men stare back at you. One of them is tall with shaggy brown hair. He has brown, puppydog eyes. The other is shorter, and has green eyes. You notice his leather jacket. He gives you a smile, and pulls out a badge. </i></p><p>  <i>"FBI. We'd like to ask you some questions, if you don't mind."<i></i></i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Smell of Leather

You wake up to the sound of sirens howling. Bright light floods your room, and you sleepily push at the covers. They fall from the bed onto the floor. You prop yourself up on your left arm, wincing at the swirling red, blue, and white lights that shine through your window.

  
There are police cars in the driveway of your neighbour's house.

  
_Oh my God. Melanie._

  
Your sleepy senses slow you down as you stumble out through your front door and up your friend's driveway. Three cops stand outside, pointing their guns at the front door that has been kicked down-- two men and a woman. One of the men stops you as you try to get past them.`

"Whoa, whoa, where do you think you're goin', miss?" He growls. "This is a crime scene."

  
_Crime scene._

  
A fourth cop emerges from the door. He spares a brief glance in your direction, and then turns to his colleagues.

  
"There's a body in the house."

  
"Is it the girl who called 911?", the woman cop asks.

  
"Looks that way", the one at the door shrugs.

  
"Melanie is dead?" You manage to mumble through the tears that threaten to choke you. The woman's face softens as she lays her hand on your shoulder.

  
"Were you close?" She whispers.

  
_Close?_

 

She was your best friend.

  
You manage to nod.

  
"We are so sorry." You hear the sympathy in her voice, her genuine regret.

  
So she is dead, just like she said she would be. And she wouldn't have died if you hadn't laughed away her fears. If you had taken her seriously two weeks ago, she would still be alive.

  
You take a step backwards, but your knees give out. Someone catches you, and the last thing you remember is the smell of leather and the feel of strong arms around you as your world turns black.

* * *

 

  
If there was anything Melanie and you had in common, it was that you were both fangirls. On the day she had moved in to the house next to yours, you had offered to help unload her things. She had asked if you knew many people from around there, and you had replied in the negative.

"So you're a loner. You live alone, right?" She had asked.

  
You had thought for a second, and said, "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me", not expecting the short blonde girl to get the reference.

  
To your shock, she had stopped short, a surprised look on her face. The next moment you were grinning at each other like Cheshire cats and exchanging tumblr urls.

  
The next day you had received a text from her.

  
_"My house._  
_Come at once, if convenient._  
_If inconvenient, come anyway."_

  
You had spent the entire day at her house, binge watching Sherlock and Doctor Who. The next day, she had come over to your house, and you both had watched the Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit trilogies (the extended versions, obviously) till your eyes had bled.

  
You had known in those two days that she was your Watson, your best friend forever.

* * *

   
TWO WEEKS AGO

  
You lie stretched out in your bed, gazing at the fan posters lining the walls around you. Your lips inevitably curve into a smile as your eyes fall on your favourite poster of all-- the one you made yourself. Benedict Cumberbatch smiles back at you from the wall, and you sigh at his glorious cheekbones.

  
"Dammit Sherlock. Don't look at me like I'm your next case", you mumble, as the door bursts open.

  
Melanie walks in and throws herself down on the bed beside you. You sit up, but before you can greet her, she grabs your hand. She turns you so that you are now face to face with her.

  
"Mel, what's wrong?" You ask.

  
Her face falls.

  
"I think I'm going crazy." She mumbles.

  
You raise your eyebrows at her, playfully punching her in the arm.

  
"Going by the wall decor in both of our rooms, I would say we both are a bit crazy." You tilt your head at the posters.

  
She doesn't smile. Her lips are pressed together in a thin line. Her eyes grim and serious. You now notice that her face is paler than usual.

  
"What is it?" You ask.

  
She hesitates, but you hold her hand and give it a squeeze. She looks up at your eyes, and you give her an encouraging smile, letting her know that she can share anything with you.

  
She swallows hard, and then finds her voice.

  
"I think there's something following me."

  
Your brow furrows, "Something? Do you mean someone's behind you?"

  
"I'm not sure it's a person. It's like a... a presence. A supernatural presence. Like something's lurking in the shadows, just waiting for the right time to spring at me", her voice falters.

  
She covers her face with her hands.

  
"I haven't slept in days, you know? I'm too scared to go to sleep. I'm too scared to let my guard down", she whispers. She takes both of your hands in yours.

"You have to help me." Tears start streaming down her cheeks. "I'm going to die if we don't do anything soon."

  
You are taken aback, but it's pretty clear she's just suffering from sleep deprivation. Paranoia is an effect of being deprived of sleep for too long, you remember reading somewhere. And besides, supernatural beings are just stuff of myths and legends-- nothing but stories in real life.

  
Your friend needs help. She needs a good doctor and medication. And lots of sleep.

  
"Come on, we're gonna visit someone." You say, throwing on your jacket and pulling her to her feet.

  
On the days that follow, she seems fine. She doesn't complain anymore, but you don't miss how she always glances around her from time to time, how she jumps at the slightest noise, how she refuses to go out in the dark. But she seems to be no longer on the edge, and you stow your worries into a corner of your mind.

  
"She'll be fine", you tell yourself.

* * *

   
Two weeks later, you sit in an ambulance, a blanket around you. You watch cops walk about, talking to each other and over the radio. You bury your face between your knees, and hug yourself tight with your arms.

  
You hear someone clear his throat, and you look up.

  
Two men stare back at you. One of them is tall with shaggy brown hair. He has brown, puppydog eyes. The other is shorter, and has green eyes. You notice his leather jacket. He gives you a smile, and pulls out a badge.

  
"FBI. We'd like to ask you some questions, if you don't mind."


	2. The Family Business

"FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind", the man says, pulling out a badge. "Agent Harrison. This is Agent Ford." He points to the taller guy.

 

_Harrison Ford?_

 

Your lips curve up in a half-smile in spite of yourself, but you hide it quickly. You shake your head in an attempt to clear it, to bring you back to the present, to the grim reality you face now.

 

"I can tell you everything I know, but I doubt that it's going to be of much use", you say, the firmness of your voice surprising you.

 

"Care to clarify?" The shorter man raises an eyebrow.

 

They will probably think you are a complete nutjob, but you don't care anymore. You take a deep breath and look him in the eye.

 

"I don't think it was a person that killed Melanie", you say. "I think it was something... _supernatural_ "

 

You can swear you saw the man's eyes gleam when you said the word. His gaze has a strange intensity now, and it makes you uncomfortable, self-conscious. Almost makes you squirm.

 

"Now why do you think that?" The other guy cuts in now. His expression is different, his tone softer. He seems to be the more compassionate of the two.

 

Well, maybe he just thinks you need a psychiatrist. Whatever. You don't give a damn what he thinks.

 

"She told me a couple of weeks ago that there was something after her. I thought she was just sleep-deprived", you sigh. "I was wrong. There actually  _was_ something after her, and now it has got her."

 

"How could you possibly know that it was something supernatural?" He asks again, sounding cautious now.

 

"Did your friend mention anything strange? Weird noises, flickering lights, strange apparitions, anything?" Agent Harrison interrupts. That strange gleam is back in his eyes.

 

His enthusiasm makes several alarms go off in your mind. You fall silent, unsure whether to trust these strangers. They are supposed to question your sanity. Any normal person would have done that. But these guys almost seem like they are _looking_ for something like this.

 

"How can I be sure that you really _are_ from the FBI?" You say, your eyes narrowing as you search their faces.

 

The shorter man gives a rather forced laugh.

 

"Well, we did show you our badges. Here, you can take a look yourself." He holds his it out.

 

But the other man stops him. He tugs at his sleeve, making him turn. He raises an eyebrow.

 

"What?" Agent Harrison asks.

 

The other guy takes a quick glance at you. He shifts on his feet, and whispers to his partner. 

 

"We should tell her."

 

You can see the other man start to protest, but the taller man takes things into  his own hands.

 

"We are not from the FBI", he says.

 

You are not surprised. You had figured that out a few moments ago when the men had started acting like paranormal investigators rather than agents of the law.

 

"I'm Sam Winchester. This is my brother Dean. We... we hunt supernatural beings", he says.

 

"Hunt?" _Now_ you are surprised.

 

"This is our job. We go from place to place." Agent Harrison-- no, _Dean_ \-- says.

 

Your mouth is still open from the shock.

 

"Saving people, hunting things-- it's the family business." Dean shrugs.

 

"So you're saying that you can kill... er, catch whatever killed Melanie?" You ask.

 

"We are hoping to", Sam says. He looks around and then looks back at you. "Is there some place where we can discuss this in private?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter is too short, but I'm just preparing you for the big things to come.  
> The reader is about to meet her first supernatural being (Yay!)  
> Will post the next chapter very soon.


	3. Breaking and Entering

Sam sits across from you on the sofa while Dean strolls around, looking at your book collection. You tell them of how Melanie was afraid of the shadows, how she insisted on keeping the lights on all the time.

  
"A daeva?" Sam asks.

  
"No." Dean says, sitting down next to you. "If it was a daeva, she would be dead even before she knew anything was after her. I think we can rule that out."

  
"And besides, there was no blood spilled. Daevas rip their victims apart, don't they?" Sam adds.

  
_Daevas_? You make a mental note to ask them about it once this gets over.

 

"I don't know if you've heard about this, but..." you hesitate, "there's this thing called... um, a shadow person."

  
They seem to be listening, so you continue.

  
"It looks like the silhouette of a person. At first people haunted by it see it their peripheral visions only, making them paranoid and scared of the dark." You draw a breath. "And one day, without warning, it appears to them-- face to face."

  
"And?" Dean asks.

  
"They attack. There have been incidents of people reporting to have seen shadow people and then ending up dead a few days later. All of them choked to death." You turn your laptop around so they can see the screen.

  
"That's... possible" Sam agrees, looking from you to his brother.

  
"One way to make sure." Dean rises. "Can you get us into her house?"

  
"Yeah, sure. I have a set of keys." You dangle them in front of you.

  
Your eyes narrow as Dean's gaze shifts from the keys to further down. Heat rises in your cheeks. Is he looking at your... chest?

  
"One ring to rule them all, huh?" He says, turning to go. You finger the _One Ring_ replica hanging by a simple chain around your neck, feeling very foolish.

* * *

  
You stand in the cold while the brothers retrieve some things from the trunk of their Impala. Dean tucks a Colt in the waistband of his jeans while Sam takes out a Beretta. One or two knives flash in the dim light. Finally they get out their flashlights and turn to you.

  
"Let's go." Dean says. As he walks past you, a sudden gust of wind brings you the smell of his leather jacket. It is weird how reassuring this smell has become to you now, considering he is practically a stranger. You inhale deeply, letting it fill your lungs, calm your nerves.

  
_Oh, get a grip. You've only known him for a few hours!_

  
You duck under a police tape, following Sam and Dean into the house. Their flashlights sweep the place high and low, landing on the furniture, the doors and windows, the carpet. The whole scene seems unreal, like something ripped off a cheap horror movie.

  
"So what exactly are you looking for?" You break the silence.

  
"Anything that would tell us about this son of a bitch we are hunting" Dean whispers.

  
Sam opens a door and steps inside, his movements slow and cautious. Dean crouches, shining the light under the couch.

  
You notice something on the ground glitter in the light. You bend down to pick it up while Dean follows it with his flashlight. The thing sparkles in your hands. Brilliant little dots dance all over the walls. Dean rises, moves closer and takes it from your hand.

  
It looks like a brooch, and unless you are very mistaken, studded with black and white diamonds. It is a circle, seemingly made of platinum. White diamonds form the background. Black diamonds are laid on it to form a strange symbol-- eight arrows, all originating from the centre, pointing in eight different directions.

  
"Was this your friend's?" He traces a finger over the gems.

  
"No." You shake your head.

  
"Good. Because this, sweetheart, is a Chaos Star."

  
"The _Chaos Star_? Like the _'Symbol of Eight'_   Chaos Star?" You are in awe.

  
"You know about that?" He raises an eyebrow.

  
"Well, it was supposedly created by Michael Moorcock for his _Eternal Champion_ stories in the early 1960s. It symbolises Chaos, obviously, as opposed to the symbol of Law, which is just one straight arrow. Some, however, believe that the symbol was in existence much before that, and that Moorcock just borrowed it from occult rituals." You explain.

  
"Yeah, pretty much. Except I didn't know about that 'Symbol of Law' thing." He looks mildly impressed.

  
Before you can beam and blush at his comment, Sam appears.

  
"Dean, you better come and take a look at this." He sounds out of breath.

  
"You try to follow Dean, but Sam stops you.

  
"No, I think it would be better if you just stay here."

  
"Why?"

 

"It would be safer. Trust me", Dean says.

  
You resist the urge to pout like a ten year old, deciding to argue like a teenager instead.

  
"What if that thing is still here? What if it comes after me? I will be completely defenceless!"

  
Dean rolls his eyes and thrusts something into your hand.

  
"Here, take this. It's pure iron. Should repel the thing if it comes after you."

  
You hold up the knife. You wrap your fingers around the blade and warmth meets your cold skin-- his warmth. The thought brings an unexpected jump in your pulse.

  
"And just _stay_ there. Don't move around", he calls, disappearing after his brother into the darkness. 

* * *

  
Darkness surrounds you, allayed only by the tiny beam of the flashlight you hold. In the dead silence, otherwise unnoticeable sounds become magnified-- the ticking of a clock, the rustle of your clothes, the thumping of your heart in your chest. A breeze comes in through the half-open door, its chilled fingers making you shiver. An eeriness descends. You feel a prickling sensation in the back of your neck.

  
You are being watched.

  
Something moves in the corner of your vision, and you turn.

  
_Nothing there._

  
You survey every corner of the room, just to be sure. The feel of the knife handle is reassuring. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a black mass-- darker than darkness itself, in the shape of a man. You tighten your grip on the knife, preparing yourself. You turn, slashing at the air-- but the spectre is gone.

  
You will your racing heart to slow down, taking deep breaths through your mouth. You feel it behind you now, a cold breath brushes your neck. You hold the knife firm in your hand. But this time, you don't turn. You bring your arm forward and in a sudden movement, plunge it behind you. It doesn't seem strike anything solid. But you know you have hit your mark when a loud screech echoes around the room. You hear footsteps running towards you, and suddenly, the presence in the room is gone.

  
Dean bursts through the door first, the Colt in his hand.

  
"What happened?"

  
Sam follows.

  
"Are you alright? We heard you scream."

  
"I... er... it wasn't me."

  
"Yeah? Then what was it?" Dean asks.

  
"It was the shadow... thing. It attacked me, I stabbed it with the knife and it left." You hold the knife up, suddenly feeling very childish.

  
Sam chuckles, while Dean just stands there with a strange look on his face.

  
"So it really _was_ a shadow-person?" Sam asks.

  
"Yeah. I'm sure of it. I saw it." You reply.

  
"Looks like you hit the bullseye on this one." Dean replaces his Colt in his jeans.

  
You shrug.

  
"I don't know whether to be happy or scared, though", you say. "There are more things like this out there, right? More creatures. Ghosts, spirits."

  
"Yeah." Sam nods. "More than you'll ever know."

  
"Night's almost over, you should head back. Wouldn't want to get caught trespassing on the crime scene." Dean says.

  
As you walk back, something suddenly occurs to you.

  
"Do vampires exist?"

  
"Yeah. They do." Sam nods.

  
"Are there... uh, _vegetarian_ vampires?"

  
"No, none that we know of", Sam says.

  
"Oh, thank God."

  
"Amen." Dean laughs.

  
"Your knife", you hold it out to him as they get ready to leave.

  
"No, you keep it", he says, "Suits you better."

  
"We'll come back tomorrow night. There's something in there we need to...", Sam looks at his brother, "...check out."

  
When they are gone, you close the door behind you in your own home, feeling exhausted. This time, you don't notice as the black silhouette trails you, disappearing into the shadows as you leave the knife on your table.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the Chaos Star has no occult significance whatsoever, but hey, I need something to move the story forward.  
> And let me warn you, there will me more GoT/LoTR/Sherlock references in the coming chapters.


	4. Find Me

Lauren freezes as footsteps echo in the hallway. With trembling hands, she tries to put the book back in the rack as quietly as possible. She holds her fingers to her mouth, trying to muffle the sound of her heavy breathing. Heart thumping, she presses her back against the shelf.

 

_ One _ ,  _ two _ ,  _ three _ .

 

They are coming closer. She hides herself behind the colossal bookshelf of historical volumes and peers down to the corridor which leads to the room. A large shadow appears on the wall.

 

It is a man. A very tall man wearing a hat. He walks steadily in her direction, as if he knows exactly where she is

.

_ As if he can smell her fear. _

 

The shadow grows larger, and she braces herself, waiting for the figure to appear.

 

He doesn’t.

 

The shadow grows closer, and the footsteps grow even louder.

 

"Calm, keep calm", she tells herself.

 

Her throat is parched and her sweaty shirt clings to her back. Her bangs, now damp, hang from her forehead.

 

The shadow now ripples over the spines of the enormous volumes on the bookshelf. She wants to scream, but she can’t. Her body is weak, her legs threatening to give out under her.

 

The shadow moves towards her. She feels a wave of cold washing over her, as if she has opened a window in a winter evening and a draft has entered. The shadow extends its hand. She feels cold fingers at her throat. A whimper escapes her. The hand forms a fist, and she feels pressure on her neck. A voice speaks to her, a whisper echoing inside her skull.

 

_ Let go, stop trying. _

 

She can’t breathe. She can’t stop trying to breathe. Her fingers move as if on their own accord and scratch at the invisible hand around her neck. Her chest heave for a draught of air. It hurts every time she blinks.

 

 _It wouldn't_ _hurt if you just stopped_ _trying_ , the voice says.

 

She tries to kick out, but her legs give way. The last thing she sees is the shadow rippling on the bookcases. Then darkness takes over.

 

* * *

 

 

You wake up clutching at the sheets and gasping for breath. Your top is drenched in sweat. A wave of nausea hits you, and you just make it to the bathroom before your knees buckle, leaving you clutching the toilet seat for support as you heave the contents of your stomach into it. The images from the nightmare refuse to leave you.

 

_ Lauren _ . That’s the girl’s name. And that wasn’t just a nightmare.

 

_ I have to call them. _

 

You are beyond exhausted. You are weary. Your head rattles like a tin can with pebbles inside it. You close your eyes, and eight-pointed stars swim across your vision. It is when you make it to the door that you hear the voices inside your head. It feels like a thousand people trying to talk to you through the same phone at the same time. You wobble slightly and have to clutch the wall for support. Through the confusion, one voice reaches you, loud and clear.

 

A familiar voice. And it says your name.

 

“Melanie?” You whisper.

 

The voices stop at once and your vision clears. The nausea disappears. You stare straight ahead at the wall in front of you where something is written in bold, red letters.

 

You extend your hand as you approach it, touching it with your finger. You bring it up to your nose, and the smell of blood hits you hard. 

 

_ Find me, _ it says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's short. I know.   
> So I'll make up for it and post the next one sooner, I promise.


	5. Lauren

The ‘EMF meter’ as Sam had called it, gives out a high-pitched noise as he brings it near the writing on the wall. He nods to himself.

 

“Definitely spiritual activity.” 

 

“Yeah, well. I kind of figured that out by myself.” You mutter.

 

“Sorry, did you say something?” He turns.

 

You shake your head.

 

He raises an eyebrow at you.

 

“Dean isn’t here because he’s trying to gather some information about the creature.” He winks.

 

“Okay, but I didn’t ask.” You say.

 

“You weren’t asking very loudly.” He says, switching off the EMF meter. You make a face at his back as he takes a few steps away from you and seats himself on the edge of the table.

 

“Now, I want to know exactly what you saw when you heard those voices.” He looks at you.

 

You draw a deep breath.

 

“I can’t really say, it was all confusing. And on top of that I had this horrible headache…” You bite your lip. “I don’t remember much except the Chaos Star.” You hang your head.

 

“The Chaos Star?” Sam leans forward..

 

“It was painted this time… black in white I think. On some sort of cloth. It was fluttering in the wind…” Your frown.

 

He folds his arms, listening.

 

“A flag. It was a flag!” You exclaim.

 

“And the voices?”

 

“ It was all a jumble. I couldn’t make anything out. Except…”

 

“Except your friend’s voice.” He completes it for you. You nod.

 

“So... what do you think? What’s the meaning of all this?” You gesture at the blood stains on your wall.

 

“I think your friend… is trying to communicate with you.” He pauses.

 

"She’s a spirit now. There’s a limit to the things she can do, places she can go... “, he tilts his head. “You were her friend. She would want you to know what happened to her. She would want you to find the thing that killed her.”

 

“And you think that is why I saw that girl getting killed? Am I supposed to save her?”

 

“Probably.” He rises. “Can you remember anything about the place where you saw it happen?”

 

“Oh, it’s the local library.”

 

“The library? Dean’s there.” Sam takes out his phone.

 

* * *

 

_ Where are you , Lauren? _

 

You pick up your pace, trying to keep up with Sam as he leads the way. You blink hard, trying to rid your brain of the images that just keep popping up. 

 

_ A raven haired girl, sprawled across the floor, bookshelves lining the side. Finger-shaped bruises on her neck. _

 

“Over here, Sammy”, Dean’s voice calls from behind a shelf lined with history books.

 

Your breath catches in your throat as you make a turn around the corner. Dean kneels beside a pale girl stretched on the ground, her arms splayed to the sides. 

 

“We are late” Sam whispers.

 

“So it would seem.” Dean points to her neck. Purple bruises dot her neck.

 

Guilt rips your heart and weighs it down to a bottomless pit. You swallow the tears that threaten to overwhelm you, digging your nails into the palm of your hand. 

 

A cold wind brushes your cheeks. Your senses sharpen, your mind going alert as the nausea returns, only much milder now. You feel cold seeping from a point on your left, and you lay your hand on the volumes that line the shelves. You brush your fingers against the covers, and they get colder and colder as you move them. Then you hit it.

 

A large, leather bound book with yellowing pages. Its cover cold as ice to your probing fingers.

 

You open the book. A loose page flutters down and Dean catches it.

 

“Well, guess what.” He lifts his head, holding it up for you to see.

 

An eight-arrowed symbol, crudely sketched in pencil. 

 

_ The Chaos Star.  _

 

Dean rises and takes the book from your hand, almost dropping it in surprise when the cold hits him.

 

“Son of a…”, he hisses.

 

Sam moves closer, examining the pages as Dean turns them one by one. Strange symbols line the pages which almost crumble when Dean touches them. Your search yields nothing, and Dean closes the book with a disgruntled sound. 

 

“What the hell!” Sam exclaims.

 

You clamp your hand over your mouth as you turn. Lauren is gone. There is no sign of the raven-haired girl anywhere, no sign that anything happened at all.

 

As you take a step back, the lights start flickering.


	6. Decide.

The soft purring of the Impala is the only sound you hear as you ride back. None of the brothers seems to be willing to share anything, but from their tensed postures, you know something is going through their minds. So you just sigh and resign yourself to watching the setting sun through the window. 

 

They are still silent when the car grinds to a halt in front of your house. You get out and send a questioning glance to Dean. 

 

“We’re just going into your friend’s house. We gotta check something out.” Dean finally opens his mouth.

 

“I can come with you.” You offer, though you already know what his reply is going to be.

 

“Look, we’ve dragged you into enough dangerous situations as it is. We are hunters, you are not. So maybe you should just go home and let the professionals work.” Dean attempts to flash you a smile.

 

“Are you serious?” You rest your hands on top of the car, glaring at him.

 

“We just want you to be safe, alright?” Sam says, his eyes imploring you to go back, to leave all of it behind.

 

_ Too bad his puppydog looks won’t work this time. _

 

“Look. You didn’t drag me into anything. It was  _ my  _ friend that got murdered. It was  _ her spirit _ that talked to me before.” You pause, looking Dean in the eye. “So if you think I’m just gonna sit on the sidelines and do nothing, you are wrong.”

 

Dean sighs, not looking at you anymore. His fingers tighten their grip on the wheel.

 

“You don’t know what you’re throwing away”, he says, “You can walk away now, leave everything behind. If you choose to come with us now, there will be no turning back later.” He looks you in the eye, his expression serious.

 

You almost wish you could do what he wants you to. His eyes beg you to let it go, to go back to your normal, safe life. But you can’t. No matter how much you want to, you can’t. 

 

_ Find me. _

 

Melanie’s voice speaks to you inside your mind. It takes you just a split second to decide.

 

“Wait a second.” You tell them, dashing into your house. You grab your knife from the table and return.

 

“Let’s go.” You say, your voice firm, full of conviction.

 

Dean doesn’t protest anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another short chapter. I know.   
> So you can expect the next one sooner.


	7. The Cult of Eris

You are back in Melanie’s house. The air is thick and musty. It looks like the cops haven’t been back in their scene of crime since that day. You hold your breath as Sam opens a door, the same one he had disappeared into when you were here last time.

 

You expect the sight you were used to, Melanie’s bedroom walls decorated with fan posters-- not unlike your own. But what you see there takes your breath away.

 

Instead of the Sherlock posters and Lord of the Rings curios you expect, there are several symbols, crudely drawn, pinned to the walls. The table holds an iron poker, a container of salt and a some dried herb you don’t recognise. 

 

“Protection charms”, Sam mutters, taking a step towards the wall where the symbols are hung. “That’s sage, by the way”, he points to the plant on the table. “It wards off evil powers.”

 

“So this is what you saw that night.” You face him. “Why didn’t you tell me then?”

 

“We didn’t want to involve you in any of this.” Dean gestures around.

 

“She was trying to protect herself from it. She must have been really scared.” You whisper.

 

_ And I didn’t do anything. _

 

That heavy feeling in the pit of your stomach returns, and you watch silently as Dean tears the symbols off the walls. He adds Melanie’s diary to the stack and faces you.

 

“Come on, we have some research to do.”

 

* * *

You sit cross-legged on the floor with Sam, your laptops open in front of you. Dean enters, carrying a pile of worn out books. He kneels and places them in front of you.

 

“Don’t tell me you stole them from the library.” You look up at him.

 

“Oh, I’m gonna return them.” He shrugs it off, spreading the books out in front of you and Sam.

 

“Look through them and see if you can get some info.” He tells Sam. “You too. Since you’ve decided to tag along, might as well make yourself useful.” He tilts his head at you, rising to leave.

 

As soon as he is out of earshot, you turn to Sam.

 

“He is bossy.” You hiss.

 

“Yeah.” Sam chuckles. “And short.” 

 

_ He is not that short. He has to be around 6 feet tall, which makes him taller than you anyway… _

 

You conjure up mental images where Dean towers over you, his gaze fixed on your eyes, and--

 

Sam snaps his fingers in front of your face and you are brought back to earth. 

 

Dean returns with an old-looking journal worn at the edges. He sits on the couch, flipping through the pages. 

 

“That was our dad’s.” Sam whispers, a note of sadness entering his voice. “He was a hunter too.”

 

You notice Dean’s figure tense up, though he doesn’t look at either of you.

 

_ Was _ . You realise their father must probably be dead.

 

Sam doesn’t elaborate, so you let it go. You both return to your tasks, though you can’t help stealing a glance at Dean’s face one in a while. He mostly manages to keep a straight face-- but you can read pain in the way his eyes are downcast and his lips are pulled tight. 

 

Was it just grief, or did you see a twinge of guilt in his features?

 

“Hey, take a look at this”, Sam holds out the book he has been scanning through. 

 

“What?” Dean leans forward. 

 

“It says about a cult. Or rather, a religion-- I don’t know what to call it.” He eyes the book. “ It holds Greek Goddess Eris as its patron deity. And guess what their symbol is.”

 

He holds up the book so you can see it.

 

“The Chaos Star.” You whisper.

 

“Of course. What else would it be?” Dean throws up his hands.

 

“Hold on”, you turn the pages frantically in the book were searching.

 

“Here. Eris is the Greek Goddess of chaos, strife, and discord.” You read. “Wow, it says here she was responsible for the Trojan war.  _ And  _ she has shadow-beings as her minions.” You search the brothers’ faces.

 

“Well, that adds up” Dean folds his arms, leaning back in his seat. “Is there anything else?”

 

“Her followers can earn her favour by human sacrifices.” Your brow furrows as you take in the information. “Eight souls in exchange for a gift of great power from the Goddess.”

 

“That’s why all these people have been killed!” Sam exclaims. “Somebody’s trying to complete the ritual.”

 

“And when they do, God knows what would happen next.” Dean says.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the facts abou Eris are true, some I made up.


	8. Dear Diary

“I’ll leave you to it.” Sam closes the door behind him. Dean and Sam had decided that it would be better if _you_ checked Melanie’s diary instead of them. So you sit on the edge of your bed, the diary held tight in your hands.

 

Memories come flooding back as you flip through the pages. Your eyes scan over descriptions of your time together, and you miss her.

 

You stop around midway through it.

 

_What a weird day. I was taking out the trash when I noticed something glittering on the ground-- turned out it was a brooch. Must cost a fortune, especially if those stones really are diamonds._

_Anyway, I took it back home with me. I’m sure I can find the owner through the internet or something._

_Funny thing is, when I took it in my hand, I felt a sort of chill running down my spine. It was gone the next moment-- could’ve been my imagination. But the thing is sitting on top of my table right now, and it still freaks me out when I look at it.”_

 

You turn a few more pages.

 

_Something strange is happening here. Either I’ going mad, or there is someone in the house besides me. Sometimes when I’m up at night to get a glass of water or something, I can swear there is something breathing down the back of my neck. And then I turn, and it’s gone. This has been happening over and over again and I’m scared. I’m really scared. I think I should talk to someone about it._

 

The next page.

 

_I talked to her about it today, and she didn't believe me. She says I’m sleep deprived. I might be-- I have hardly slept in the last few nights. But I can feel it in my bones; something is out to get me._

_It’s time to do something. And if I can’t get my best friend’s help, I’ll do it on my own. She probably thinks I’m crazy now._

_It kind of makes me sad. I had somehow hoped that she would understand._

 

You close your eyes, unable to go on. Tears leak from the corner of your eyes and stream down your cheeks. You close the book, burying your head in your hands. Sobs break out from your throat. You cry into your hands, muffling the sound with your fingers.

 

“I am sorry.” You whisper. “I am so, so sorry.”

 

You feel a change in the air. The temperature drops, and a light wave of nausea washes over you.

 

_She is here._

 

You should be scared. You are in a closed room with a ghost for company. You should definitely be scared.

 

But you are not. There is an especially cold spot to your right, and you know your friend is beside you. The pages of the diary start turning on their own. When they stop, you glance at the page and see that it is the one where you had stopped reading. She wordlessly tells you to go on.

 

She keeps you company as you read the rest of her diary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and kudos, guys.   
> You inspire me to write more.   
> Thank you so much.


	9. Six Down, Two To Go

You emerge from your bedroom, clutching the diary to your chest. Dean and Sam look up from their places on the sofa. The pieces of paper they retrieved from Melanie’s room are spread out on the coffee table, along with a few newspaper cuttings.

 

“You found something?” Dean gestures at the book in your hand.

 

“Actually, yes.” You take a seat opposite to them, setting the diary on the table and folding your hands on your lap. Taking a deep breath, you begin.

 

“Melanie did a lot of research on the thing. She found that the brooch was cursed.”

 

The brothers look at each other, but say nothing.

 

“She found that a group had left eight cursed objects bearing Chaos Stars at locations where someone could find them. The people who find them first would be killed by the shadow creature.” You explain. 

 

“That makes sense”, Dean says. “Your friend found the brooch, she was attacked. The girl Lauren found the symbol in the library, so she was next.” 

 

“Not exactly.” You wet your lips.

 

“What do you mean?” Sam frowns, leaning forward in his seat.

 

“The cursed object Lauren found was a flag bearing the Chaos symbol. The one I saw in my vision. Melanie had managed to track her down before she...” You shrug, unable to complete the sentence.

 

“But that loose page from the library? That was cursed too, right?” Sam asks, partly to you and partly to his brother.

 

“Yeah, it was”, you nod. “And I found it first.

 

“Son of a bitch.” Dean curses, crumpling up the paper in his fist. He levels a glare at you. “You should never have gotten involved in this.”

 

His gaze makes you squirm in your seat.

 

“What are those?" You point at the newspaper clippings, desperate for a change of topic.

 

“These are news articles about people who were choked to death recently”, Sam explains. “There’s a guy named Ash who helps us with things like these. He says there have been six deaths so far that fit the pattern-- including Lauren and Melanie”

 

“So that leaves just me and… someone else?” You say.

 

“Looks that way. Congratulations.” Dean bites out through gritted teeth.

 

You hold back a retort as you take in his obvious anger. His hands are clenched into tight fists, his lips pulled together in a tight line. His rage is unsettling, and you decide that ignoring him is the best way to deal with this. So you turn to Sam.

 

“What do we do now?”

 

“We find the other person”, Sam says. “According to Ash, that is a guy named Kevin Rockefeller.”

 

“Rich kid-- daddy is CEO of some restaurant group”, Dean cuts in. “The guy was caught on camera last week at a party.”

 

He unfolds a piece of paper which he hands over to you-- a printout showing a man looking intently at a champagne glass in his hand. 

 

“Take a look at this one”, he hands you another picture. It shows the glass in enlarged view. The rest of it is a blur, but the engraved symbol is unmistakable.

 

_ Eight arrows pointing in eight directions, set on a circle.  _

 


	10. This Strange New Feeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is less action in this chapter and more character exploration.

You cross your ankles under the table, trying to distract yourself with a swig of your beer as Dean saunters up to the bartender. The blonde woman smiles warmly at him before leaning forward and placing her elbows on the counter, giving him an uninterrupted view of her cleavage. Dean’s eyes drift down and his lips curve up.

  
You shift your gaze to the woman. She has lustrous shoulder-length hair and curves in all the right places. Her manicured hands rest on the countertop as she tilts her body sideways so her hair falls to one side. She apparently knows how to flirt, judging from Dean’s reaction.

  
You look away, suddenly interested in the grain pattern of the wooden table and bring your beer to your mouth only to find it empty. As you curse under your breath, a flirtatious giggle from the woman assaults your ears.

  
“Is he always like that?” You huff, looking at Sam sitting across from you with his own drink in his hand.

  
“He does that to get hold of information.” He places the bottle on the table, not bothering to look at the spectacle. “Though the only information he manages to get every time is some girl’s phone number.”

  
Dean flashes a beguiling smile at the bartender before whispering something to her. She looks up at him from under her thick lashes, passing him a piece of paper held between two fingers. As he pockets it, she leans over the counter and whispers something in his ears, her lips almost touching his skin. You feel heat rise to your cheeks. Sam is still immersed in the journal he has been reading and you are grateful he doesn’t see your blush. But when Dean walks back with a victorious smile playing on his lips, you can’t help the annoyance that mingles with some other nameless feeling.

  
When his eyes meet yours about halfway across the bar however, the smile dies on his lips. The noise and chatter of the crowd fades away into the background as his gaze holds yours, making your throat go dry. There is no mistaking the electricity that charges the air around you. You absently curl a lock of your hair around your fingers and you feel his eyes follow the movements.

  
Someone clears his throat and the sound startles you. Sam has a sly grin on his face that makes you want to vaporise into thin air. Dean nonchalantly slips into the seat near Sam. You scan his face for any sign of what had happened a few moments ago and find nothing. His face is unreadable as he rests his hands on the table, looking at Sam questioningly.  
Sam scans his laptop screen and begins. “Kevin Rockefeller is going to be at a charity ball in…”

  
You tune him out as your eyes fall on Dean. He doesn’t even spare a glance at you-- you might as well be invisible. You mentally curse yourself for being a fool and staring at him back then. You are not his type. You look at the stunning blonde still stealing glances at Dean and try to ignore a pang of jealousy.

  
_Definitely not his type._

  
“But Dean, it’s a closed event. Only people with invitations can get in.” Sam’s voice breaks through your reverie.

 

“We have fake FBI badges, Sammy.” Dean lays his hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Why do you think I can’t find some way to get us in there?” He winks, and starts outlining his plan to Sam. 

 

* * *

  
You show Sam into the long unused spare bedroom and mutter a distracted goodnight to him. The door shuts behind you. Dean hasn't come back with you. He had told Sam to take the car, adding that he need not 'wait up'.

  
You walk to your room in silence, turning Dean’s behaviour over in your mind. He is a puzzle. A puzzle you want to solve, but it’s like he has locked up pieces of it in boxes and thrown the keys away. It’s like every time you feel a connection to him, he physically pushes you away. It’s like he has built iron walls around his heart and he wouldn’t let anyone in. Yes, that would explain why he ignored you so hard in the bar after your gazes had met like that.

  
_Or maybe I’m just not his type._

  
_And maybe I should stop thinking about him like that, give him some space._

  
And yet, as you close your eyes in an attempt to force yourself to sleep, it is his face that rises in your vision, his voice that plays over and over in your head.

* * *

  
Dean lies back on the bed as Karen crawls on all fours towards him, her lips set in a sexy smirk. She stops and bends down to brush his lips with hers. He threads his hand through her lush hair, pulling her closer as she unbuttons his shirt. Their kiss deepens, tongues clashing as Dean places his other hand on her waist. As they break the kiss for air, she drags a fingernail down his jawline.

  
“How long will you be here?” She asks in a low voice.

  
“As long as we need.” He starts working on her blouse. “I told my brother not to wait up.”

  
“In that case, Mike, your brother and his girlfriend are going to miss you for a long time”

  
Dean tenses up in her hands.

 

“What’s wrong?” Karen asks, searching his face.

  
Your face comes unbidden to his mind. He looks up at the woman hovering over him, the desire he had felt just a moment ago disappearing in a flash. Apparently just the mention of you is enough to ruin everything for him. He closes his eyes, trying to clear his mind. But thoughts of you just wouldn’t go away.

  
Karen’s expression shifts from concern to disappointment as she sees his eyes lose the spark of lust. She crawls off him, putting on her blouse. She kneels beside the bed, picking up his shirt from where it lies and throws it at him. Dean catches it expertly in one hand.

  
“Sorry.” Dean gives her a grim smile as he gets up from the bed, buttoning up.

  
“Just get out”, she glares at him.

  
Dean steps outside, slinging his jacket over one shoulder as a cool breeze touches his face. A door thunders shut behind him as he climbs down the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I am a bit late updating this chapter, and I apologise for the delay.   
> Also, I'm getting a bit nervous-- did I lose all of my precious readers?  
> Let me know if you're still reading this, guys.  
> And release me from this torture. :o3


	11. Kevin Rockefeller

It is a challenging task to keep your balance on your high-heels while simultaneously trying not to be dazzled by the luxury around you. Your eyes land on the pretentiously dressed men and women walking around with champagnes, their eyes covered with elaborately embroidered masks. You spot Sam a few feet away, comfortable in the rich atmosphere as he chats with an older man. Dean, predictably, is flirting with a tall woman in a rather short black dress. 

“I don’t seem to be able to recognise you”, a man’s voice comes from your left. You turn to face him-- he is just an inch taller than you, and appears to be in his thirties. He holds himself in a peculiar way, his hands clasped behind his back. 

“But I recognise you, Mr Bellamy”, you reply sweetly, implying with your eyes that he should be able to recognise you. You have done your homework well, reading up on each of the guests before you came. You can recall each of their names and professions within seconds, and can hold a comfortable conversation with any of them. You love the confidence it gives you-- it makes you feel like a spy.

_ Man, I love playing this game.  _

“Don’t trouble the lady, Orson”, another man comes into view. 

_Kevin Rockefeller_. You recognise him instantly, in spite of the mask that covers his eyes. He is taller than you imagined. You catch his lips slightly curve up in a smile, and it occurs to you that he is that type of man whom romance novels call ‘devastatingly handsome’. He has a sculpted face, chiselled lips, and the most perfect jawline you have ever seen. Not to mention the steel grey eyes that shine with just a hint of knowledge and mischief. Black curls tumble over his forehead onto the edge of the mask.

“Miss Swathling.” He states, looking partly at you and partly at the other man. You feel disconcerted that the man knows your name-- or rather, your fake name. 

As the other man disappears from view, Kevin Rockefeller grabs your hand, leading you away from the crowd and into a group of couples swaying to music. 

“We need to talk, Miss Swathling”, he whispers in your ear as he places a hand on your waist. You risk a glance at Dean and spot him a few feet away, something like disapproval written all over his face. 

“On my shoulder”, Kevin whispers again. You place your hand on his shoulder, the other still firmly clutched in his hand.

"So, gatecrasher, are you?" He raises an eyebrow at you as he moves to the music.

_ Shit. Guess my cover just got blown. _

"Listen, Mr Rockefeller, we came here because your life is in danger."

He twirls you around before pulling you close again, the force making you collide with his solid chest.

"Danger." He chuckles. "What are you? Some kind of secret agent? CIA?" He smirks.

"Have you recently felt like you were being watched or followed by someone or..." You lower your voice. "...something?"

He stares at you for a second or two. When he speaks, his voice is an undertone.

"How would _you_ know about that?" His eyes narrow. 

"The danger is real, Mr.Rockefeller. We came to talk to you about that." 

"I think we should continue this conversation somewhere else." He looks around him.

"Great idea." You reply, almost too eager to escape the suffocating richness around you. As he ushers you out, your eyes search for Dean among the crowd. 

This time, you don't find him.

* * *

 

A cool breeze stirs the leaves of the large tree that spreads its branches around you. As a leaf flutters down and lands on your hair, Kevin reaches his hand out as if to take it out. He fingers stop midway, hovering in the air for a long moment before returning to his side. 

"Mr. Rockefeller", you break the silence.

"Call me Kevin, please." He interrupts.

"Kevin." You agree, and give him your name. Your real name this time.

"My friend was killed about a week ago." You begin.

"I am sorry", he says.

You hold up a hand, stopping him. You don't have much time until someone figures out you are not a guest, so you will have to make this quick.

"You have seen this this symbol before, haven't you?" You ask, holding the brooch out to him.

"Yes. Last week, I think. It was inscribed on a..." He furrows his brows, trying to remember. "...a champagne glass. What does it have to do with all this, anyway?"

"My friend found this brooch before she died. And then the next day, a girl named Lauren found another symbol like this and she ended up being killed too." 

He folds his arms, listening intently.

"We found four more people murdered. All in the same way. And all of them had found the symbol before they died." You pause. "And all of them reported having seen some sort of shadow creatures."

"Shadow creatures?" He asks, his voice cautious.

You nod, hoping that he wasn't going to call someone to have you removed.

He turns away, drawing his hand over his forehead and running his fingers through his hair.

"So I'm not crazy." He says, almost inaudibly. He faces you again, and grips your arms with his hands, looking into your eyes.

"Would you believe it if I said that I haven't slept in days? I have been feeling like I'm being watched. Like something is in those shadows just waiting for me to let my guard down."

You can hear the pain in his voice, his desperation reminding you of one of your conversations with Melanie.

"We can help you." You say.

"Really? And why would you help me?" His voice has a bitter edge.

"The guys who were with me", you gesture at the hall. "They are hunters. They hunt supernatural things."

"And you?"

"I am like you. I found one of those symbols too." You whisper. "We are the two remaining."

He remains silent for a minute. 

"Okay, so what am I supposed to do now?" He asks.

"You come with us." You tilt your head at him.

* * *

 

You call and inform Dean as soon as you pass the gates with Kevin. You pause for a moment, bending down to retrieve your knife from your right shoe. You lose your balance for a moment but Kevin catches you before you hit the ground. The feel of his strong arms around you makes the edges of your mind go fuzzy.

You ignore an alarm that sounds in some sensible part of your brain as he pulls you close. He brings his right arm to support your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. His other arm touches your waist and then moves to your back, pulling you flush against him. 

_ I shouldn't be feeling this way... _

The tiny voice fades away as he stares deep into your eyes. His lips part as his gaze falls on your mouth. He closes the distance between you, touching his lips to yours. You burst into flames as he teases your mouth open. Your heart beats faster and faster as the kiss deepens. You reach your hand up, stroking his hair as you respond to his kiss.

Your stupid brain doesn't register it when his fingers tease the knife from you. 

"Wow." 

The sarcastic remark brings you to your senses. You pull away to see Sam and Dean watching you. Dean's face is an unreadable mask as he glances from you to him. You bite the inside of your cheek in nervousness. 

"If you lovebirds are done, can we start moving?" Dean gestures to the Impala. 

He doesn't wait for a reply. He leads the way and Sam follows. 

You sigh, turning to follow them. 

The touch of cold metal to the back of your spine stops you in your tracks. You hear a gun click. 

You feel Kevin pull your back against his chest, the gun still touching you. 

"Come with me now, sweetheart." He purrs.


	12. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, how long has it been!  
> Things were hectic for me this week, which led to my not posting this chapter sooner.  
> And I know the long wait after the cliffhanger was cruel to you.  
> Sorry. :(  
> Hope this makes up for it!

You wake up blurry eyed and disoriented. Your limbs are immovable, and a light gasp escapes your lips when you see the thick ropes coiling round them. You are bound to a heavy wooden chair, your wrists and ankles tied tightly to its armrests and legs. Stout ropes criss-cross your chest. You try to draw n a deep breath and find it hard. You feel your fingers start to go numb.

 

The place you are in is dimly lit, so you can see only the dark figure of a man hunched over a table where black candles burn with flickering flames. The wavering light throws strange shadows on the walls, and you shiver at their almost lifelike dance.

 

The man turns briefly at you, and then turns back to what he was doing.

 

“Awake, I see.” His voice grates unpleasantly in your ears.

 

_Kevin Rockefeller._

 

You frown as your mind finally breaks through the effects of the drug and you register the place you are in. It looks oddly familiar-- the shape of the room, the positions of the bed and the table, the curtains…

With a jolt you realise that you are in your own house, in your very own bedroom.

 

Kevin flips a switch, and you wince at the bright light. It takes you a  few moments to adjust to it, and when you finally open your eyes, you see the changes. Your posters are all gone. Instead, strange shapes and symbols line the walls. The most prominent of them is the Chaos Star itself, drawn directly above the table.

 

Your eyes dart back to Kevin to find an almost proud smile playing on his face. He glances around the room and then looks back at you.

 

“What do you think of the decorations?” He smirks.

 

“Why did you bring me here?” You glare at him.

 

“So is it Q&A, now? I’m not clear on your question, though. Do you want to know why I brought you _here_ ”, he gestures around the room, “Or why I would bring you anywhere at all?”

 

You remain silent, fixing your gaze on him. He lets out an exaggerated sigh.

 

“You are here because you are the eighth soul I need to sacrifice.” He folds his arms, leaning against the table.

 

“And you are _here,_ in your house, because of two reasons. First, this is the last place your friends would look for you. And second, I don’t want to leave any evidence pointing to myself. Just imagine the ruckus it would create if you were to be found dead at _my_ place. I have a reputation to maintain, you see.”

 

As you  turn his words over in your mind, something snags at the edge of your thoughts. Something that doesn’t quite make sense.

 

“Six.” You whisper.

 

He turns a questioning glance at you.

 

“There have only been six deaths.” You look up at him. “Then how can _I_ be the eighth sacrifice? Well, unless you plan to kill yourself too.”

 

He lowers himself to the edge of the bed, turning a knife-- your knife-- over in his hand.

 

“As much as you would love to see me dead, sweetheart, I’m not that stupid.” He says.

 

“Then how--”

 

“Too inquisitive.” He tuts. “As they say, curiosity kills the cat. But you’re already dead, aren’t you? I guess a little more information would do you no harm.”

 

“You and your friends missed someone in your research.” His voice drops to a whisper. “Charles Rockefeller. My brother. My first... sacrifice.”

 

He touches a finger to the point of the knife. He presses, as if testing its sharpness. A trickle of blood runs down his hand before dripping to the ground.

 

“You see, I have a certain _ability_ ”, he says. “I can be very… persuasive. That sure did come in handy when I had to get this knife off of you.” He holds it up.

 

You furrow your brow, trying to make sense of his words.

 

“You remember our kiss?” He tilts his head at you, his face a picture of smug satisfaction. “Sure you do. What did you feel then? Did it feel like your body was answering my command?” He pauses, getting up and walking towards you.

 

He kneels in front of you, resting his hands on yours, leaving little space between your bodies.

 

“Because it _was_. I can manipulate emotions. Allow me to demonstrate.” He raises a finger to your face, tracing a line down your jaw. His gaze darkens, and you feel something stir inside of you.

 

A familiar feeling returns. Desire burns through you like a raging fire, consuming your thought and reason. For a fleeting moment, your eyes rest on his mouth and your lips part.

 

Then without warning, the fire dies, leaving nothing behind.

 

You are shocked into silence as things fall into place. The way your body had seemed to betray you. The way you had felt that there was no one in the world you wanted more. The way you had forgotten everything, even Dean.

 

“You should have seen your guy’s face when he saw his girl making out with me in the middle of the road.” He chuckles, a harsh sound. “Oh, wait. You did.”

 

 _His girl_. You think of correcting him, but remain silent.

 

He stands up, using the chair to support himself. You notice him sway slightly on his feet as he walks away to reclaim his seat on the bed.

 

“Why?” You whisper.

 

He turns to you, raising an eyebrow.

 

“You can get anything you want with this ability of yours. Then why kill all these people? Why kill me? Why kill your own--”

 

He raises a hand, cutting you off.

 

“You have plenty of time before you die. Should you ask all of your questions at once?” He runs his fingers through his hair.

 

“Using my ability drains me. It takes energy to control someone. And if I want to control a few people at a time-- like a Board of Directors, my power is simply not enough.” He says. “So now does it make sense to you? I need more power. I need more of it to get what I need. To get what I _deserve_.”

 

“And you would take eight innocent lives for that? You killed even your brother, you monster!” You are surprised at your own outburst.

 

“Oh, he was the heir to my father’s business. He was in my way.” He shrugs. “Actually I enjoyed that death the most. I did it myself-- I cut his throat with a knife, watching the life bleed out of him. Daddy’s golden boy.” He chuckles, his eyes lighting up with something close to madness. “The other six, my servants took care of them.”

 

“The shadow beings.”

 

“If that’s what you call them.” He looks at his watch impatiently.

 

“One of those six was my best friend.” You speak through gritted teeth.

 

“Don’t worry, dear. You will be reunited with your friend soon. Your death will unleash an ancient power upon this world. And that power, will be in _my_ command.” He closes his fist, gazing at it as if in deep thought. “I should thank you.”

 

“So why don’t you just get it over with? What are you waiting for?” You ask.

 

“Midnight.” He gets up and flips a switch, plunging the room into darkness save for the meagre light of the candles.

 

The shadows come back to dance on the walls.

  
  
  



	13. Premonition

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I should make something clear at this point-- the story is set somewhere in the beginning of the second season of SPN.   
> You know, before all hell breaks loose.   
> I think that would give our heroes some breathing space to hunt and kill monsters with you without getting distracted by the apocalypse and such heavy matters.  
> And the ending might diverge from the canon path.   
> Might.

Dean watches impatiently as Sam walks to him, his hands inside his pockets and his head bowed.

 

“I don’t think she’s here either, Dean”, he says, disappointment written on his features.

 

“Don’t tell me that, Sammy. If she’s not here in his mansion then where the hell is she?” He grabs his shoulders. “Where are we supposed to look for her?”

 

“I don’t know Dean. But I know for sure that Kevin hasn’t come back here with her.” He gives his brother a sympathetic look. “I wish I could help her, man. I really do. But there’s nothing we can do.”

 

"Wow, what happened to you, man?" Dean looks him in the eye. "You were the ‘we-should-help-them any-way-we-can' guy. Now you're content to just sit here and wait while that son of a bitch does God knows what--"

 

He stops as Sam clutches at his forehead in pain.

 

"Sam." Dean puts an arm on his brother's shoulder. "Sammy, what is it?"

 

Sam gasps as he sinks to the ground, gripping his hair with his hands.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

 

_ A blade glints in the dim light of candles. A tall man walks out of the shadows, holding a knife up in his right hand. His face wears a strangely calm expression as he walks up to a girl in the far corner of the room. She is tied up, bound tightly to a chair with thick, sturdy ropes. _

 

_ She struggles and strains against the bonds that hold her still, but to no avail. Her eyes are wide with fear-- fear she is trying to hide. She swallows as the man walks around to stand behind her. His deft fingers sweep her messy hair from her shoulders, giving him access to her throat. _

 

_ "Midnight, sweetheart. It's time." He whispers. _

 

_ She closes her eyes as he touches the blade tip to her cheek. The cold metal makes her shudder. The knife moves further down to rest on her neck, right on top of her vein.  _

 

_ Then in one swift motion, he slices through it. _

_________________________________________________________________________________________

 

"Sam! Sammy! Are you alright?

 

Dean's insistent voice drags him back from the vision. 

 

"I know where she is." He whispers.

 

"What?"

 

"Dean, he's going to kill her. We have to get there before midnight." Sam struggles to get up. "I had a premonition, again. He's going to slit her throat."

 

Dean almost feels the blood drain from his face at the words.

 

"Where?" He asks, his hand already going to the gun in his waistband.

 

"Her house. They are in her house." Sam passes a hand over his eyes. “How long do we have until midnight?”

 

“About half an hour”, Dean replies.

  
“Then we better hurry.”


	14. Just On Time

You have given up trying to struggle free of your bonds-- it is useless and you know it. The knots are too tight, the ropes too strong for you to break. You have had nothing but the humiliating knowledge that the decision of your fate has been taken from your hands. You have had nothing to do but hope, _pray_ that they find you before midnight.

  
You can see his figure as an outline against the faint light of the candles. He stirs, planting his feet on the ground, stretching himself to his full height before walking over to you. His eyes are fixed on you, his movements lithe and graceful. He reminds you of a panther approaching its cornered prey.

  
“Midnight, sweetheart. It’s time.” He purrs in a low voice.

  
He takes his place behind you, laying his hand on your shoulder. His fingers gently brush your hair away from your neck. The knife touches your skin.

  
A loud crash makes him falter. The knife nicks your skin and you gasp.

  
Dean and Sam stand at the entrance, guns drawn and panting.

  
“Right on time, I see.” Kevin drawls, cocking his head to the side. His grip tightens on your shoulder and you feel the knife dig into your skin. A trickle of warm blood runs down.

  
“Drop it and step away from her.” Dean growls, but Kevin doesn’t move.

  
“What if I don’t?” He sneers. “What will you do?”

  
“This is not the time to be cocky, man.You are just one against the two of us. You have a knife and we have guns. Do the math.” Dean challenges.

  
Kevin clicks his tongue.

  
“Never any good with numbers, were you?” Kevin smirks.

  
You see something move behind the brothers. But before you can cry out in alarm, black fingers materialise around their throats, yanking them back. The guns clatter to the floor.

  
“You forgot my servants.” Kevin dangles a star-shaped locket in front of them, smiling in triumph.

  
“That’s the talisman! That is how he’s controlling the--” Sam gets cut off as one of the shadow beings wraps its fingers around his throat. Another takes hold of his legs, dragging him away.

  
As they vanish from your sight, Kevin replaces the talisman in his pocket.

  
"Anticlimactic, wasn't it? " He turns to you.

  
“Now where were we?” He smiles, the cold gleam of his eyes making you shiver.

  
He lays his hand on top of your head, keeping it steady as the knife returns to your throat, right above where your pulse taps away wildly.

  
You shiver again.

  
The room suddenly feels very, very cold. You can almost feel the heat being leeched out of your body. You welcome it, as a now familiar feeling of nausea washes over you.

  
Kevin gasps and steps away from you, his knife slashing at an unseen enemy, but meeting only the cold air. Mist condenses before you, getting denser and denser as each moment passes. You watch in wonder as a form you know well materialises in the moonlight.

  
She smiles at you, her eyes wide and mournful.

  
"Melanie." You whisper.

  
Her gaze shifts to the man beside you. You see her eyes flash.

  
Kevin flies across the room, crashing on to the table, upsetting the candles and the vessels. The knife clatters to the ground along with the paraphernalia. Flames leap from the overturned candles onto the tablecloth, feeding greedily as they spread.

  
Through the flames, you see Sam and Dean dash in, naked blades glinting in the light of the fire. Kevin staggers to his feet, but falls down again as Dean lands a punch on his face. Sam stops short at the sight of Melanie.

  
The flames start licking at the bed, making their way to you. The heat makes beads of sweat form on your forehead.

  
“Guys, some help with this, please?” You raise your voice.

  
“Right.” Dean walks over to you, his green eyes wide with concern. He hacks at the ropes coiled around your hands. You wiggle your fingers as they come free, a dull pain spreading over them as the blood flow returns to normal.

  
“How does it feel?” Dean whispers to you in a soft voice.

  
“Fine, I guess.” You shrug, looking up at him.

  
His face is a mixture of emotions, ranging from relief to weariness to something else you can’t quite recognise. He doesn’t look at you.

  
He reaches, loosening the ropes around your body before kneeling down to free your legs. His fingers make quick work of them once the knife cuts through. He doesn’t look up from his work, not even once.

  
You can tell that he is angry, even though he doesn’t show it. You can tell by the way his eyebrows knit together and his lips set in a thin line. You can tell by how his eyes refuse to meet yours. You can tell by how he pretends to be immersed in some senseless task, such as making an untidy knot of the rope before throwing it away. But what you can’t tell is who the anger is directed at.

  
“We don’t have forever. You should get up.” He says.

  
You try to lift yourself from the chair, but fail. Being tied down to a chair for four long hours has turned your limbs to wood.

  
Dean sighs as he rises to his feet.

  
“Come on.” He puts his hand around you, his other hand taking hold of your arm.

  
Sam pushes Kevin forward on gunpoint, following close behind.

  
Your eyes widen as you watch flames climb up Sam’s jeans.

  
“Hey!” You call out. “Your leg!”

  
Sam veers around. Kevin takes advantage of the distraction, striking out at Sam before dashing out. 

 


	15. Salt and Iron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I can still remember the first time I tasted blood. It tasted like salt and iron, like rust and tears._

“Damn!” Sam mutters as he pats his jeans down frantically, trying to put the fire out. Dean almost lets you fall trying to follow Kevin. But your fingers tightening around his remind him of you and he stops. You send him a smile somewhere between apologetic and embarrassed.

 

“I think it’s time for us to get out.” Sam looks around at the flames and then looks back at you, resting on where Dean’s fingers twine with yours.

 

“Can you walk?” Dean tentatively releases his grip on you.

 

You test your balance. The pain is already dulling and your limbs feel less like wooden attachments to your body. You can move about.

 

Awkwardly, yes. But still you can move. You wouldn’t slow them down.

 

“Yeah.” You nod.

 

You pick up your knife from the floor, wiping the blood off on the edge of your dress.

 

“We should stay together. Can’t say when the bitches might decide to come at us again.”

 

You file out of the room, Sam in front of you and Dean behind you. They seem alert and tense, their guns held out. The intensity of their eyes and the sharpness of their movements remind you of who they are.

 

_Hunters_.

 

And it’s no ordinary prey they hunt.

 

Thick black smoke emanates from behind you, swirling around and obscuring the already dimly lit scene before you. You cough, holding your arm in front of your face trying not to inhale any of the fumes.

 

“It’s like walking blind in here.” Sam yells a few feet away from you.

 

Dean bumps into you in the dark.

 

“Sorry”, he mutters, stepping away. You hear something crash to the ground followed by a loud swear from Dean.

 

“Hold on.” You say, groping your way in the darkness. You place your hand on the wall, dragging it as you move on, trying not to knock anything over as you search for the light-switch.

 

A hand grabs your wrist and twists it. Something hard shoves you from the side and you scream.

 

Except no sound comes out. Your cry gets caught in your throat as fingers close around your neck and squeeze. You go down, crashing to the ground with nothing to break your fall. Your fingers scratch desperately at the phantom hands at your throat. The black shadows hold you down.

 

A hollow feeling of hopelessness spreads in your chest, draining the fight out of you. Your hands go limp and your eyes close. Even your breathing slows down. Your legs stop kicking.

 

Dejection weighs your heart down like a millstone dragging a drowning man to the depths of the sea. You cease to fight. You almost cease to breathe.

 

_This is how it ends._

 

The thought comes unbidden to you, almost as if planted in your mind by someone. It feels strange, alien. You hold onto the last strings of your consciousness as what remains of your sense grapples with the voice in your head, the voice that tells you to give up.

 

_Kevin_.

 

The feeble remains of your sense reminds you before flickering out like a candle stub.

 

So you act without thought, some primitive sense of self-preservation your only guide.

 

Your grip tightens around the wooden handle of your knife. With the last of your strength, you plunge it into the air in front of you, right into the darkest spot in your already dark vision.

 

Something warm sprays onto your lips as the blade strikes something solid, and then keeps going. Your skin on your palm burns with the friction.

 

Someone screams and you hear it as if in a dream, the sound seemingly coming from far away. Something heavy leans against you, and you feel warm wetness spreading among you fingers where they meet the wood.

 

You wince as light floods the room, making the shadows disperse.

 

Kevin’s body slumps over you, the blade of your knife buried deep in his chest, staining his shirt red. The acrid smell of blood mixes with the fumes. You lick your lips. They taste like salt and iron.


	16. A List of Losses

The Impala's gentle purr is soothing. Dean drives and Sam rides shotgun, leaving the backseat to you. They are silent, and you are grateful that they give you what you so desperately need.

You allow the memories to come back, allowing them to flow through the cracks in the iron wall you had built in your mind.

_I killed a man._

That is the first thought that comes to your mind, and it almost overwhelms you.

Almost.

The smell, the sight and the taste come back to you, threatening to send you into panic and confusion.

But you are strong. You tell yourself that, taking deep breaths and leaning back against the seat. The senses fade, the horror and revulsion fade, leaving just the cold, hard facts.

You stabbed him in the chest.

The house burnt down, his corpse with it.

The fire would attract attention-- the police would be there in no time. And you would be the suspect. Your house, your fingerprints all over the knife, if it survives the flames. And the fact that at least fifty of the richest men and women in the city would testify to having seen you lure him out of a party.

And you chose to run away.

You don't remember how they got you out of the house and into the Impala, but what you remember is Dean's eyes stern and determined, his grip strong on your arm as he led you out. And how he stayed silent, as if he knew just one word would have been enough to break you then.

You remember how, as the Impala roared to life, you glanced at what was your house for one last time to see it being engulfed in flames. You remember the fiery light, the crackling, the heat on your face.

And you remember the glimpse of your friend's face that you caught through the flames-- just for a moment, before she was seemingly swallowed by a blinding light.

She should be at rest. At peace.

She must have crossed over.

You close your eyes and move on, your thoughts turning to the present once again.

_I am a fugitive now._

Yes, you are a fugitive, running away from the consequence of your crime. The word almost makes you laugh, its bitter edge eliciting just a low chuckle from you. You know they would call it a crime, call you murderer. Him being the wealthy heir that he was and you being the nobody. His crimes, if any be found, would be hushed up. Your justification of self-defence would stand as much chance as a candle in the storm.

Running away was the right decision.

  
You welcome the rush of the cold wind against your face, the way it brushes your hair reminding you of someone you loved. Someone you lost a long time ago.

 _Losses_. You now have a lot more to add to the list of your losses.

Your house.

Your normal life.

Melanie.

Somehow, saying her name doesn't bring back the flood of pain as it usually did. Instead, a warm feeling of satisfaction courses through you. You managed to find her, you managed to get her revenge, give her the peace she deserved.

_The list. Yes, the list._

_Innocence._

The word comes to the tip of your tongue and turns to ash. You clench your fists as you realise that this is the loss you regret the most. It is something that you will never get back, no matter what you do.

Unless you can turn back time, that is.

You took this decision by yourself, so there is no one to blame but you. You forfeited your right to innocence the moment you decided to go with the brothers no matter where it took you. That was just two days ago, and yet it feels like a long time. And the blissful ignorance you had wore off you each moment, with each new discovery.

The knowledge that there are dark, twisted, evil things out there. The knowledge that there are equally dark and twisted people who go around in masks, luring their prey in and ripping them to shreds when they least expect it.

The memory of Kevin Rockefeller still makes you shudder, the rotten heart he had under his beautiful exterior causing nothing but revulsion in you.

You had lost the last bit of your innocence as the lights had come on, and you had come face to face with the fresh corpse of the man.

The knowledge of how easy it is to take a life. The knowledge that you had the _capacity_ to take a life.

That had overwhelmed you then, but now as you mull over it, it gives you a sense of calm, a sense of control. A sense of purpose.

It is strange, but you feel like you understand the brothers now. Maybe not completely, but you understand what drives them to do what they do.

You understand why they hunt. You know, though they haven't told you yet, that it is their losses that lead them on.

The Impala grinds to a halt. You look out of the window to see the brightly lit motel sign.

 


	17. No More of Normal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating sooner. I really wanted to keep this consistent but... life got in the way.  
> :(

You shut the door behind you, combing your fingers through your tangled mess of hair. The large bathroom mirror reflects your form. You stare back, not recognising the person you see there. Your eye makeup has spread, creating dark shadows around your tired eyes. There is a small streak of dried blood along the underside of your chin. Looking at the dark stains on your dress, you wonder how Dean managed to distract the receptionist so she didn’t notice the bloody mess you were. 

You slide the straps of your dress past your shoulders and let it slip down to the floor. You step into the shower, removing the remaining pieces of clothing on your body.

You close your eyes as the warm water falls on your skin. Your hands move over your body, scrubbing off all the marks, all the dirt, all the stains. A sigh escapes your lips as the water washes away every sign of the day from you.

The sound of footsteps outside the door makes you pause and listen. 

_ Dean _ .

You stay silent, and he doesn't call for you. You stop the shower, listening to his movements outside the door. He stays for just a few moments, and then his footsteps fade away into the distance.

You heave a sigh of relief when you  step out of the bathroom and  spot the clean clothes that sit on top of the bed. 

Your mouth curves up in a smile as you put them on, trying not to wonder how he got them in your size. They don't fit perfectly-- and you don't expect them to. They don't hug too tight or hang too loose, and you are grateful for that.

There is a knock at your door as you finish dressing. You open the door to reveal Sam’s face. Dean peers from behind.

“You okay?” Sam asks, giving you a hesitant smile.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” You nod. 

Inwardly, you laugh at yourself. You are not fine. You know it, and so do they. 

But that’s a lie you need to tell yourself anyway.

You smile back at Sam. You don’t say anything more, waiting for him to speak again. 

Sam clears his throat, gesturing at the corridor as he finds his words.

“So then I’ll just, uh… I’ll be right back.” He tilts his head at Dean as he leaves.

You open the door wider as you walk back into the room and Dean follows. He takes a moment to shut the door and you stop at the window, absently tugging at the curtain.

“So”, he begins, and you turn to face him.

But he doesn’t say anything more. Silence stretches uncomfortably between you and him, as each tries to find something to say and fails.

He purses his lips and shifts from foot to foot, his eyes landing everywhere in the room but your face.

You curl your fingers into fists, and bite your lips lightly. Your heart pounds away in your chest and your mind is in a haze.

You grope for words, clinging to the last bit of rational thought in your brain.

“Thank you.” You say.

His eyes clear, and he looks at your face. The awkwardness is gone, the tension seeming to have left his body. The friendly cheerfulness returns.

“Don’t mention it.” He waves it off as he takes a seat on the edge of your bed.

“No. Thank you, really. I know I wouldn’t have survived without you.” You sit a safe distance from him on the bed. “You and Sam both.” You add as an afterthought.

“We only did what we were supposed to.” He shrugs. “But have you really thought about what happens from now on?” 

And the question that you have been dreading all along pops up. 

Of course, they wouldn’t want you to tag along. You would just slow them down in whatever they do, you would be just an obstacle in their way. 

But would you survive on your own, without them? 

Panic sets in, and you feel your palms grow slippery with sweat. 

You are a fugitive now, running away from the law. How long would you last without the brothers having your back? Would you last at all?

“No offence, but I don’t think you would last long on your own.” Dean echoes your thoughts. “So we were thinking-- unless you have a better plan-- why don’t you join us?”

He puts it so bluntly, you don’t know how to react. Your mouth gapes open in surprise, and you stare at him for a few seconds.

He misinterprets your silence, doubt creeping back to his voice.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to. We can understand. Hunting creatures for a job, always being on the go, not settling down ever… That might not be the best life for you.” He stands up, moving for the door. “You must want to go back to a normal life-- I can understand.”

You spring to your feet, surprising him as much as yourself.

“Are you kidding me? My normal life is  _ ashes  _ now!” You exclaim. “I don’t have a normal life! I’m probably going to be a wanted criminal in a few days, you know.”

He freezes with his hand on the doorknob.

“Is that a yes?” His green eyes glitter with hope and excitement.

“Of course that’s a yes.”


	18. Lessons

The old barn has been abandoned for years, if Dean is to be believed. Cobwebs hang from every corner, and weeds have grown all around the crumbling place. Inside, you stand staring at the wall, the gun in your hand pointed at the target painted in red.

 

Dean stands behind you, whispering instructions, correcting your stance and improving your grip. Sam sits in a corner, watching you with interest and just a hint of amusement as you struggle to keep your arm steady.

 

“Just tilt your body a bit to the side… yeah, that’s better.” Dean says.

 

You tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear, chewing your lip in concentration.

 

“Okay. now. Try not to aim. Just point and shoot”, he says touching your elbow slightly, bringing your arm to a better angle. “Now.”

 

His touch makes your skin tingle, and the sensation runs from your nerve endings to all of your body.

 

Your stupid heart begins to flutter at his nearness. It sets your nerves on edge, makes you hyper-aware of him. How he is so close that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. You swallow, trying not to shiver as his breath grazes the back of your neck.

 

_ Okay, now is not the time to lose focus _ . You tell yourself, closing your eyes and then opening them again, and fix your gaze on the centre of the painted circles. You press the trigger.

 

It is the deafening sound rather than the recoil that startles you, makes your hands shake just enough for the bullet to bury itself into the wood-- off-target. Again.

 

Sam chuckles. You turn to glare at him, but that only seems to make him laugh harder. 

 

“You know, if I could shoot you right now, I don’t think I’ll miss.” You huff.

 

Before he can reply, his cell phone rings.

 

“Bobby?” He speaks into the phone. You see Dean become instantly alert. A look of worry crosses Sam’s face.

 

“Yeah. We’ll be there.”, he says.

* * *

 

 

A few hours later, you find yourself on the road again, riding shotgun this time.

 

“So, this Bobby…” you begin.

 

“An old friend of our dad’s. He has helped us a lot.” Sam answers from the back seat.

 

“Yeah. Though the last time our dad met him, they didn’t exactly part as friends.” Dean chuckles. “He cocked the shotgun and everything. Said he would blast dad full of rock-salt.”

 

“Oh.” You raise an eyebrow.

  
  


“But he saw us through a lot after dad died.” Sam’s voice breaks.

 

“Did he say why he wanted to see you?” You ask, changing the subject. 

 

Your emotions are best described as a mixture of excited and nervous about meeting another hunter. Their world is bound to be different from your own, and you don’t know if there is a place for you in it. How would they see a novice who can barely lift a gun?

 

“He said it’s like nothing he has ever seen.” Sam interrupts your thoughts.

 

“Coming from Bobby, that’s pretty strange.” Dean comments. 

 

It doesn’t make you feel any better. Now, you know you are going to be involved in something not even a seasoned hunter can understand.

  
_ What the hell did you get yourself into? _


	19. Bobby (Part 1)

You don’t know what to expect when the door opens. From what you have heard, Bobby Singer is an experienced hunter, with a better knowledge of spells and rituals than anyone else. The thought that you are going to meet a hunter-- other than the brothers, of course-- for the first time makes you anxious. But at the same time it is somehow strangely exhilarating. 

 

You look at Dean and he looks back, giving you a smile that sets your pulse racing. You avert your eyes quickly and curse yourself in your mind, trying to concentrate on anything but him.

 

A bearded man dressed in a flannel shirt and sporting a trucker’s hat opens the door. He is as tall as Dean, with blue eyes that look kind, but hide a strange understanding and intensity in them. His gaze falls on you and you see a guarded expression cross his face. Wordlessly he opens the door wider, letting you in.

 

“This is the girl you told me about?” He asks Sam as soon as he shuts the door behind you.

 

“Yeah. Her house got burned to the ground along with all her things and so we just thought she might as well come with us.” Sam replies.

 

“Not to mention she might have the law at her heels right now.” Dean mutters.

 

Your eyes dart to Bobby, judging his reaction. He seems to be regarding you calmly, almost as if he is sizing you up. You give Dean a questioning look. 

 

“It’s okay. We have known him for a long time. He wouldn't sell us out.” Dean assures you.

 

“No, I wouldn’t.” Bobby said. “But first…” He turns, pouring something into a glass.

 

It looks like water, but the way he offers it to you and the way the brothers stare at it make it clear that it is something more.

 

“Is that really necessary?” Sam asks, pointing to the glass.

 

“I just have to make sure.” Bobby replies, still holding it out to you. “Drink up.”

 

“What is it?” You ask. You can feel the tension in the air. 

 

“Holy water.” Dean says from behind you.

 

“Why…” You trail off, turning to Dean. You raise an eyebrow at him.

 

He gives you a nod and you take a tiny step towards Bobby, taking the glass from his hands. It doesn’t look any different from water. You tilt your head back, pouring the liquid into your mouth. You feel the cold water running down your throat-- and it definitely doesn’t feel any different from water. 

 

When you return the glass to Bobby, you can see a slight smile gracing his lips.

 

“Sorry, kid. I felt something was off about your... er… timing.” He looks at Dean and Sam, smiling apologetically. “You know, with the things that have been going on, you can’t blame me if I get a bit paranoid.” 

 

You don’t have any idea what he is talking about, but you nod anyway.

 

“What things?” Sam’s voice is cautious. “You said you couldn’t say anything over the phone.”

 

“I’m coming to that. It might take a while for me to explain, so”, he gestures around the place. “If we could all sit down…”

 

You see some movement out of the corner of your eye. The window is closed, but you could have sworn you saw a shadow there just a moment ago. You wait, holding your breath. Nothing happens, and everything seems quiet except for the rustle of leaves in the wind outside. 

 

_ It’s nothing. Just the remnants of last week’s memories coming back…  _

 

You shudder remembering the shadow beings. 

 

You sit down, subconsciously putting distance between you and Dean. Bobby picks up a thick, leather-bound volume, and flips the pages.


	20. Bobby (Part 2)

Dean keeps his eyes on you as you take your seat, a good ten feet away from him. He watches as your eyes flit all over the place, taking in the salt lines at the door and windows, the sawn-off shotgun and the revolver resting on the tabletop among carelessly strewn bullets, the gigantic devil’s trap painted on the ceiling.

 

He watches as your eyes widen in interest at the drawing-- you can’t have recognised it. But you surprise him when you point your finger at it, turning to Bobby.

 

“I have seen that before.”

 

Bobby freezes with his hand on one of the pages of the book.

 

“I thought you... didn’t know anything about...” Bobby says, eyeing you warily.

 

You shift in your seat, sensing that you have roused Bobby’s suspicion again. You don’t blame him-- being a hunter meant not trusting strangers with a questionable background. You wish you can explain it to him, how you recognise the symbol painted on the ceiling. Only you don’t remember.

 

It is clear to you that you have seen it before. The lines, the inscriptions are all familiar to you, but you just don’t know how.

 

You feel all their eyes on you, as if they are expecting you to explain. You bite your lip, searching for a credible story.

 

“It’s usually we who call you for help, Bobby. What happened this time that you have called us?” Sam asks, trying to change the subject.

 

Bobby doesn’t reply, but stares at you for one long moment. His gaze is piercing, and you feel like he is staring into the depths of your soul, into dark places buried deep down, too deep even for you to know.

 

You return his gaze as steadily as you can, resisting the overwhelming urge to look away.

 

Finally, after what seems like ages, he drops his gaze to the book, releasing you from the stare. You look at Dean out of the corner of your eyes, and see him wearing a relieved expression.

 

“I don’t know what we’re faced with. But whatever it is, it is a hell of a lot more dangerous than anything I have ever seen.” He speaks in a low voice.

 

“A demon?” Dean leans forward in his seat, his eyes glittering with ill-concealed excitement.

 

Whenever you have seen Dean talking about demons, you have sensed this excitement rolling off him in waves. You had seen it when he had sat you down to give what he called a ‘crash course’ on demonology. You had noticed his fingers tremble as he had told you that some demons were more powerful than others, that there were demons who were immune to holy water. Somehow, you had gotten the distinct feeling that he wasn’t talking about just any demon. You had felt like he was looking for a very particular demon.

 

And that feeling intensifies now, as you watch his eager face. Bobby seems to sense it too.

 

“Not the one you are looking for”, he says dryly. “At least, I don’t think so.”

 

Dean seems disappointed. Bobby ignores this as he finds the page he has been looking for.

 

“I was in Sioux Falls last week. Returning a favour for an old friend. His house-- they had lived there for years-- became haunted couple of weeks ago. Multiple spirits-- nasty ones too. It was a pain in the ass getting them out of there.” He tilts his head. “But something was different about them. Almost seemed like someone was pulling the strings, making them dance.”

 

“Controlling spirits. Not the first time we’ve heard of that.” Sam says, sending a glance at Dean.

 

“But it wasn’t a person, Sam. It was a demon.” Bobby replies.

 

“What!” Sam exclaims.

 

“Are you sure about that?” Dean asks.

 

“I saw it. It came to me after I was done. Caught me unawares.” Bobby closes his eyes, as if at an unpleasant memory. “It wanted to know where you boys were. Tried to pry it out of my mouth. When I wouldn’t squeal, he branded me with this symbol.”

 

He turns the book around so you can see the drawing on the page. Sam takes it from him, examining it with a serious face.

 

“It was red hot. I could feel it burn my skin, I saw the mark. Right here.” He pulls up his sleeve, tapping an empty spot on his arm with his finger. “It was gone in no time, though. The demon tried to leave, stumbled into a Devil’s trap. I exorcised his ass back to hell.”

 

“But what are you afraid of, Bobby? The demon’s gone, isn’t it?” You speak up.

 

“For now, yes. But I still haven’t figured out what he did, branding me like that.” He rubbed the spot again, as if he could feel the searing heat again. “And he told me something before he was gone. He said he had figured out some way they could control spirits. And he said there were more behind him.”

 

“Demon’s _lie,_ Bobby. They’ll do anything to keep you from exorcising them. They would _say_ anything. You of all people should know that.” Sam says, sounding exasperated.

 

“Yeah.” Bobby nods. “But I don’t think this one did.”


	21. Past

You leave the brothers in their room-- Sam browsing on his laptop and Dean fiddling with his knife-- as you return to yours. You pull your notepad from your pocket, retrieve a pen from the table and sit down in your own bed. Crossing your legs and laying the notepad in front of you.

 

Once you touch the pen to paper, the strokes keep coming. Not once do you have to stop and think. The lines, the writing, the scorpion in the centre-- it keeps coming. The picture seemingly finishing itself, as if by magic.

 

You apply the finishing touches. A stroke here. A dash there. 

 

The devil’s trap lies before you, just as you had seen it on Bobby’s ceiling.

 

“Remarkable memory.” The voice comes from behind you, making you jump. “Well, considering that you saw it only once before.”

 

You turn to find Dean looking over your shoulder, a strange expression on his face.

 

You don’t know why, but it feels like you have done something wrong. Something you should cover up. You resist the urge to grab the paper and crumple it into a ball.

 

You force yourself to relax, putting on a neutral expression.

 

“Oh.” You glance at the drawing, turning to him with a dismissive wave of your hand. “Yeah. Thanks.” You laugh.

 

But the sound of your laughter rings false in your ears. And by the way he raises his eyebrows almost imperceptibly, you know he isn’t fooled. 

 

You wait. For the torrent of questions. For your lie to be uncovered. 

 

Though you have no idea what you are lying about.

 

No questions come, though. He smiles at you. 

 

A smile that stretches his lips, but doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

 

He nods. And he leaves.

 

You are left staring at the page before you, at this chink from your past. A part of your memory that has remained buried from you till now. 

 

You lie back, holding it up above you so you can see it clearly. 

 

You have seen this before. Of that you are sure, though you don’t know when or where. 

 

Your memory is like a dense fog, out of which only this tiny piece shines through. And as hard as you try, you can’t seem to see anything beyond that.

 

_ Why can’t I remember? _   
  


The thought swirls around in your brain, echoing inside your skull as sleep drags you down to unconsciousness. 

 

* * *

 

 

_ It is snowing outside. You stand at the window, pressing your hand to the glass. The face of a young girl  looks back at you from the faint reflection. _

 

_ You are ten, and it’s your birthday. Your mom has said there wouldn’t be a celebration this time. She had given you your present in the morning, and told you that somebody would be coming to see you.  _

 

_ “Hey...” Her voice calls from behind you now. “Why are you standing there all alone?” _

 

_ You turn to face her, walking up to her to look into her eyes.  _

 

_ She lies to you all the time, but her eyes never lie. _

 

_ “Is it another doctor? Is he coming to find out what’s wrong with me?” You ask.  _

 

_ Her face falls. She takes your hand, drawing you close and resting your head on her shoulder. _

 

_ “No sweetie. There’s nothing wrong with you.” Her voice sounds tired, and you know she doesn’t mean what she said. There  _ is  _ something wrong with you, and you have known that for about a year now.  _

 

_ She pats you on the back, gives you a tired smile and walks out of your room. You hear hushed voices outside-- it’s dad talking to mom-- and you tiptoe to the door. _

 

_ “You know how I feel about bringing in this Pastor Jim.” Your dad says, his voice barely a whisper. “We don’t know anything about him. How do we trust him with our child?” _

 

_ “I know, honey.” Mom’s voice is ever lower. “But we gotta try. None of the psychologists were able to find what was wrong with her. I just feel that we should try this. Just once. Maybe there’s something--” _

 

_ “What? You really believe there’s something supernatural about what’s going on with her, don’t you?” He scoffs. _

 

_ “I said, ‘Let’s just give it a try.’” Mom sounds angry, her voice beginning to raise a bit. “And we can stay right outside the door and listen, make sure he doesn’t try anything with--” She stops. _

 

_ You don’t like it when your parents argue, especially when the argument is about what to do with you.  _

 

_ The doorbell sounds, and you return to sit  on your bed.  _

 

_ You know what to expect when visitors like these turn up. They come up to your room, talk to you in their kind, sugarcoated voices, ask you questions. Some take notes. And before they leave, they talk to your parents behind closed doors.  _

 

_ And after every visit, you see your parents look a little bit more tired, get a little bit more desperate. _

 

_ The door opens, and a man walks in. He doesn’t look like the others-- he wears a collar, the same kind you have seen on pastors in the churches mom takes you to.  _

 

_ And he has a warm smile. _

 

_ He extends a hand, and his smile grows even wider as he introduces himself as Jim Murphy. _

 

_ “You can call me Pastor Jim.” He sits on a chair, facing you. “And you must be--” _

 

_ You give him your name, though you are sure he knows it. _

 

_ “Right.” He leans forward, resting his chin on his hand.  _

 

_ “Now, your mom tells me you have been seeing certain… things.” He tilts his head at you. “Things that other people can’t see.” _

 

_ You nod.  _

 

_ “Would you describe them for me?” _


	22. Key to the Past

 

_The room starts fading. The walls seem to distort and expand out. The man who was in front of you-- Jim Murphy-- isn’t there anymore. You stand up, and the rest of your room fades away. The ceiling is replaced by the blue sky._

_People file past you. You look up at the sea of faces going by. Some ignore you, while some pause in their stride to smile down at you. You are just a kid in the middle of the way, and they keep going by._

_Across the crowd, a distinctive face catches your attention-- he is taller than most of the others, which makes it easy for you to see him even from far away. He wears an easy smile, moving with an air of confidence. Somehow, the crowd parts before him, giving way to him. Somehow, he exudes power._

_And right in front of your eyes, his features begin to morph._

_His hair lengthens and turns dirty and matted. His skin starts to wrinkle and warp, his flesh starts to rot. Maggots crawl out of crevices on his face, slithering and sliding their way over his skin.His lips disappear to be replaced by a long slit, right where the man’s smile was._

_He blinks once, and when his eyes open, they are black globes sitting inside deep wells._

_You frantically search the faces around you, but no one seems to have noticed anything. No one seems to see what you are seeing._

_The creature keeps coming closer._

_You open your mouth, but your scream gets stuck in your throat. Your body freezes as you lock eyes with the creature._

_He stops in his tracks. His black eyes seem to be gauging your reaction. They squint, and then widen as if he has just realised something._

_In one long stride, he closes the distance between you, kneeling down in front of you so his face is level with yours. His face pulls into what would have been a smile if it hadn’t been for the set of yellow canines that show._

_You start shaking as his hand touches your arm. You look down at his blackened nails._

_You try to cry for help, but no sound comes out. You try to move, but your legs feel leaden, rooting you to the spot._

_A burn starts on your skin where he is touching you. The pain starts from your arm, spreading through your nerve endings. It spreads like fire, burning your body from the inside. Your throat constricts. Your eyes sting, and tears stream down your cheeks._

_The creature’s face, contorted into a smirk, moves closer. It reeks of death and decay. A new surge of pain shoots up your chest. You feel blood dripping out of the corner of your mouth._

_You scream._

* * *

 

You sit upright in your bed, covered in sweat and panting, reeling from the nightmare that was just too vivid to be a dream. The dull pain in your hand tells you the same.

You reach for the lightswitch. As the room is filled with light, you gasp at the small black mark that marks your singed skin, right there on your forearm.

It’s a scar. It looks old, like it could be from a burn that happened years ago. And you are sure as hell that it wasn’t there when you went to bed last night.

The memory of your childhood has always been foggy. And you can’t help feeling that the dream was just a part of your childhood that you had somehow forgotten. A memory that was somehow, hidden from you.

Till now.

You grab your notepad and a pen from the nightstand. You feel a nervous flutter in your stomach as you write the words.

_Jim Murphy_.

The key to your past.

  
Now you just have to find him.


	23. Just a Bother

You open your mouth and shut it again. Dean is right beside you at the wheel, lip-syncing to _Highway to Hell_ blaring from the car speakers. For the last fifteen minutes, while Dean Winchester sang through _Livin’ on the Edge_ , _Bounty Hunter_ _,_ and _Rock of Ages_ , you have been trying to make up your mind about whether or not to tell him.

 

_ Dean, by any chance, do you know a man named Jim Murphy? Pastor Jim? Because he might know something important about my childhood, things I can’t even remember now. _

 

Instead, you just stare straight ahead at the road that stretches like a long, winding, black ribbon before you. 

 

“Do you think Bobby will be alright?” You say.

 

He pauses midway through the chorus and turns to you, his eyebrow half-raised.

 

“He’s barricaded himself in. Nothing’s gonna get to him while we are gone.” He smiles. “Besides, he has been in this business longer than we have. He can look after himself for a while.”

 

“So you’re not worried about what that demon did to him? What that could mean?”

 

“Well, there’s no use in worrying. I guess we just have to investigate a little bit into these things. Research, you know.” He wrinkles his nose at the word. “And we’ll find the answer to this riddle.”

 

You nod and relapse into silence. Dean goes back to singing, moving his head back and forth in time with the music.

 

“ _ No stop signs, speed limit _

_ Nobody's gonna slow me down _

_ Like a wheel gonna spin it _

_ Nobody's gonna mess me around”  _

 

Out of nowhere, a dark shape appears in front of the car. 

 

“Watch out!” You shout.

 

Dean swerves hard and the car drifts along the road, coming to rest narrowly avoiding a signpost. Sam starts awake in the backseat, sitting bolt upright.

 

“What the hell was that?”

 

Dean doesn’t answer but holds a hand up, a furrow appearing on his forehead. It seems quiet outside, but his hunter senses seem to have picked up something you haven’t noticed yet.

 

A second later, a hulking figure appears at Dean’s window. You cry out as the car door is pulled open by the man outside. He takes Dean by the collar, drags him out and throws him to the ground, before taking a brief glance at you.

 

In the fading light of the dusk, you see his pitch black eyes.

 

There is a grunt from the other side of the car. Dean lies crumpled on the ground, as if in pain. The demon reaches you, but the holy water catches him off guard. He shrieks, clutching at his face, blindly clawing the air with his hands while you make a run for the back of the car. 

 

Just as you open the trunk, he appears behind you again. You are better prepared this time, and you stand still till you see Sam walk right behind the demon before throwing the liquid at him again. 

 

Another scream emanates from him. He staggers in his step, and Sam takes advantage, knocking him into the trunk and shutting the lid.

 

“Well done, you two!” Dean limps towards you, the smile back on his face. “You remembered what I told you about the trunk having a devil’s trap. Good work remembering that.” He pats you patronisingly on the shoulder. You smack his hand away.

 

“So what are we going to do with this thing in there?” Sam points to the back of the car.

 

“I know an abandoned barn around here.” Dean gestures into the distance. “We could get him in there, draw a devil’s trap or something… Ask him a few questions.”

 

You nod.

 

“Looks like the answer we were searching for fell right into our laps.”

* * *

 

A loud screech echoes around the abandoned barn as the holy water splashes across the demon’s face. Dean stands back, waiting for the thing before him to stop panting. It takes him a while, but when he finally raises his eyes to look at Dean, his expression is smug. He chuckles slowly.

 

Dean lets out an exasperated sound, passing his hand over his eyes. 

 

“For the last time, you son of a bitch, tell us who in hell sent you!”

 

His expression is more dangerous than you have ever seen it when he shouts in the demon’s face. A smirk is the demon’s only answer. Dean opens the silver bottle again.

 

“I am not going to tell you, hunter. Haven’t you figured that out by now? So why don’t you do us both a favor and exorcise me now?” The demon speaks, his voice a low monotone.

 

“This is the first time I’ve met a demon who wants to be exorcised.” Sam mutters.

 

“Let’s try something else, shall we?” Dean pulls a gun from his pocket. 

 

It is a Colt, old and rugged. You catch a glimpse of the pentagram engraved on the wooden handle.

 

_ The Colt. The weapon that can kill anything. _

 

You have heard of its existence from the younger Winchester. The gun Samuel Colt made, now held firmly in Dean’s hand, the last bullet awaiting its turn. You stare at it, mesmerized.

 

But then he points it at the demon, and you are startled out of your reverie.

 

“No!” 

 

Your shout makes him stop, his finger still on the trigger. His expression is cold when he turns his face to you. 

 

“What?” He sounds annoyed.

 

“That demon. Is inside a human. If you use that gun on him, you’ll kill the man too.” You try to keep your voice as steady as possible.

 

He lowers the gun and takes two steps to stand in front of you. When he speaks his voice is controlled, with just a hint of  condescension. 

 

“In a hunter's world, we can’t always afford to think like that." His expression turns dark. "Sometimes you have to take a life to save many others.”

 

You blink in surprise. You have hardly ever seen this side of the fun-loving Dean you have come to know. 

 

“We’re not in any danger now, are we? Then why are you doing this?”

 

Silence meets your question.

 

“You know what, I think she is right.” Sam says. “Besides, that’s our last bullet.” He points at the gun.

 

Dean raises it again, his eyes fixed on the demon’s face.

 

“This is the only way we’ll find out what they did to Bobby.” He says, in a low voice. “So speak, you son of a bitch, and you might live.”

 

You grab his hand, positioning yourself between him and his target.

 

“I am  _not_ going to let you take an innocent person’s life.”

 

When Dean's eyes search your face, he sees the fire in your eyes, the firm set of your jaw. He hears the conviction in your voice and feels it again in the strength of your grip on his hand.

 

And it's annoying.


	24. Truth Is Stranger Than Fiction

You relax your grip on his hand when you see the resignation in his eyes. He lowers the gun, tucking it into the waistband of his jeans as he turns away. He picks up the old worn out journal and hands it to you.

 

The sun has set, and the barn is in near darkness, making it impossible for you to read what is engraved on the cover. You run your fingers over it.

 

Dean lights the candles you had brought from the car and places them on the ground. The flames spring to light, bathing his features in a warm golden glow. You avert your eyes quickly, almost as if afraid to stare at him for more than a few seconds. Your eyes fall on the journal, and you can now see clearly the initials embossed on it.

 

_H.W._

 

You flip the pages to find the one that has been marked.

 

_An exorcism ritual._

 

“Why don’t you take over?” He says, his tone flat and devoid of emotion.

 

You know it wasn’t a question, so you don’t reply. He doesn’t wait for your reply either.

 

As he walks out followed by Sam, you catch the tired look on his face. It is as if he has aged years in just a few moments, and you can guess that his mind is somewhere else now, probably reliving some unpleasant memory.

 

The door is shut with a soft thud, and you are left alone in the overbearing silence. Alone, with the creature that sits in the chair in front of you, regarding you with a thoughtful expression.

 

“You saved my life. How very noble of you.” His face contorts into a picture of disdain.

 

“I didn’t do it for you.” You walk closer to him. “There is a human you are possessing.”

 

“Oh, you shouldn’t count on the man surviving. He is probably already dead.” He says. “They say it is very rare that a human survives an exorcism.”

 

You dig your nails into the palm of your hand, telling your heartbeat to slow down.

 

“So, you are the tag-along.” He tilts his head. “I heard the news.”

 

“What news?” You keep your voice steady, hiding your nervousness.

 

“Your friends are pretty famous down there, in hell.” He says in a conversational tone. “What with Azazel’s plans for little Sammy and all that.”

 

_Azazel? Plans?_

 

Seeing no recognition on your face, he smiles.

 

“Azazel. Yellow-eyed demon. Ever heard of him?”

 

You do not reply, but your befuddled expression gives you away.

 

“They haven’t told you yet, have they? Makes sense. The Winchesters know how to keep their secrets.” His voice lowers to a whisper. “As you know how to keep yours.”

 

You feel a tremor travel the length of your body. Your face whitens, and he doesn’t fail to take notice. His smile widens as if he has just found something he was looking for.

 

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” It is a desperate attempt at hiding the truth, made weak by the fact that your reactions have already exposed it.

 

“Look at me. What do you see?”

 

As he speaks, you find yourself looking at his face, as if caught in a trance. His eyes light up with an almost manic gleam. His own gaze-- piercing, intense-- makes you squirm. Something inside of you screams at you to avert your eyes, to stop looking. To let your feet carry you far from him. 

 

_Don't look._

 

But it is impossible to tear your eyes away.

 

In the near darkness illuminated only by the candle flames flickering around you, you see his face change.

 

His eyes are black like the starless night sky, set inside red-rimmed holes in his skull. To you it looks as if his skin is melting away, making his bones visible. The flames start at his eyes and spread out over his bony face, giving him the look of a fiery skeleton, like a spectre that has just risen from its torture in hell-fire.

 

“What do you see?”

 

The voice echoes around the place is no longer a man’s voice-- it is a hollow ring, a voice like the rush of the wind in your ears.

 

“What do you see?” The voice speaks again, and this time it is inside your head, an unpleasant grating against your ears, an echo inside your skull.

 

You feel light-headed. Your senses seem muted, your feet almost losing their footing. Your vision clouds over.

 

When your eyes clear, the demon smiles back at you from his seat in the chair. Bound in ropes, but somehow seeming more powerful than ever. He looks no different from a human.

 

“You saw my true form.” He states calmly.


	25. A Rotten Heart

_Drawn blinds, locked and bolted doors. Hastily packed bags littering the floor. Scared faces and sleepless eyes. Salt lines at doors and windows._

 

_A knock sounds, and tired faces look up in dread._

 

_Dad approaches the door, putting on an air of false bravado while mom cowers in the shadows, clutching you desperately to her body._

 

_"Pastor Jim."_

 

_There is audible relief in his voice as he opens the door just enough to let the newcomer in._

_Jim Murphy's eyes flit over the place, finally landing on you._

 

_"We have no time to lose. They are coming for her." He whispers. Your mother gently disengages your arms from around her neck, standing up. There is a fire in her eyes now, a sort of courage-- the sort that springs from desperation._

 

_"Let's go, then." Her voice doesn't quaver anymore._

 

_The house is left behind very soon. Even speeding along the road, it seems as if in every shadow, in every dark corner, something evil is crouching. Preparing to spring on you and tear you to shreds in the first opportunity you offer._

 

_You should be hearing the night sounds around you now-- the relentless chirping of crickets, the flutter of bat wings, the hoot of an owl or two._

 

_Instead, there is ominous silence around you, as if the night is holding its breath in anticipation of something dreadful._

_The moon comes out. A homeless man stumbles from the sidewalk onto the road, probably cold, and too drunk to realise it. The tyres screech loudly as dad hits the brakes. The man straightens, his eyes glinting in the dark and a slow smirk spreading across his face._

_And that's when you see it._

 

_Fire. Flames that lick at his face, which soon seems to be changing appearance. Skin melting like wax. Flesh burning away, leaving nothing but the bones. A hideous figure, a skeleton on fire._

 

_You scream._

 

_"Demon." Pastor Jim gasps, reaching for his bottle of holy water._

 

_But it's too late._

 

_Two more demons appear._

 

_Your father is gone and a moment later, so is your mother. Dragged from the car and thrown away, their bodies hitting the ground with dull, sickening thuds._

 

_They lie where they fall, not stirring._

 

_You choke on your own tears, torn between a sob and a scream. Iron hands grab you from behind, lifting you off the seat._

 

_"Leave her!" Pastor Jim gets up, emptying the contents of a canister onto your body, drenching you in a cold liquid._

 

_The grips loosen and inhuman shrieks rend the night air._

 

_The car roars to life. The familiar figures of your mom and dad lie sprawled on the ground, surrounded by the writhing forms of  the three demons._

 

_"No. Mom! Dad!" You call. But they are silent._

 

_As the car speeds away, you find your voice. The wind carries your wails up to the sky._

* * *

 

 

"You saw my true form." The demon states calmly, his eyes boring through yours.

 

You stay transfixed, counting the seconds that pass by, waiting for your heartbeat return to some semblance of normal. Your eyes study the wooden floor, as if memorising every crack, every crevice. Trying to gain control of your instincts that seem to be baying for blood, when you know you have already lost it.

 

"You." The voice that issues from your throat is a low growl.

 

The demon tilts his head in question.

 

"You. _You_ killed my parents." In your mind's eye, you see the images-- a man and woman, lying on their back on asphalt. Dead. _Killed_.

 

Mom and dad. And you don't even remember their faces, let alone their names. 

 

What you do remember is that you loved them, and they loved you, and they were taken away from you. 

 

By the creature that now sits in front of you, smug and satisfied.

 

"Oh. Are you starting to remember?" He says.

 

His smile is unbearable.

 

You open the book, quickly flipping through the pages and finding the one you were looking for.

 

 _"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus_ _omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio_ _infernalis adversarii, omnis legio,_ _omnis congregatio et secta diabolica."_

 

"NO!" The creature gasps.

 

"What? I thought you wanted to be exorcised." Your voice is cold, sneering, and you don't recognise it anymore as yours.

 

"Please don't send me back there." He pleads.

 

You enjoy this. Much to your surprise, you find that it is rather fun to have his smug smirk wiped right off his face, to be replaced by this pathetic begging.

 

" _Ergo draco maledicte_ _et omnis legio diabolica_ _adjuramus te._ _Cessa decipere humanas creaturas,_ _eisque aeternae Perditionis venenum propinare."_

 

That elicits another scream from him. You pause to look into his eyes. He takes huge gulps of air, evidently in pain.

 

You want to draw this out as long as possible, torture him long and slow. Give him _pain_.

 

Before you can start chanting, however, he interrupts.

 

"I can tell you about Bobby." His voice is urgent and desperate, and you relish seeing the helplessness in his eyes.

 

You almost want to move your face closer to his, to breathe in his fear and despair.

 

"And why would I believe you? Your kind lie all the time, you know." 

 

"You were the target. Bobby was just a means to get to you. We knew you were with the WInchesters, but we didn't know your exact location. So we made a plan to draw you into a trap, and we used Bobby for that." He finishes between shallow breaths.

 

"Trying to finish the job you screwed up years ago. Right?" You taunt. " _Vade, Satana, inventor et magister_ _omnis fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis._ _Humiliare sub potenti manu dei,_ _contremisce et effuge, invocato a_ _nobis sancto et terribili nomine,_ _quem inferi tremunt."_

 

"Please don't."

 

You stop yourself short of laughing out loud. And you go on.

 

" _Ab insidiis diaboli, libera nos, Domine._ _Ut Ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facias libertate servire_ _te rogamus, audi nos._ _Ut inimicos sanctae Ecclesiae humiliare digneris,_ _te rogamus, audi nos."_

 

When you pause for the last time, there is nothing but hatred on the demon's face. 

 

"Pray that you never come to hell." He hisses. "Because if you do, I'll make damn sure you regret this."

 

You hold his gaze, accepting his challenge.

 

 _"Terribilis Deus de sanctuario suo._ _Deus Israhel ipse truderit virtutem_ _et fortitudinem plebi Suae._ _Benedictus deus. Gloria patri."_

 

A black cloud emerges from the man's mouth, swirling around inside the Devil's trap before disappearing into the ceiling.

 

The figure that remains on the chair is that of a beaten up looking man, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth.

 

The book slips from your hands. You fall to your knees beside him, catching his head in your hand as his form crumples. His breath blows faintly against your fingers, as if he is saying something.

 

You raise his head to look into his face.

 

"Th-thank-- you." He rasps. "It was-- ho-rrible." 

 

"Oh God." You stare helplessly at his limp form.

 

"Horrible. Thank-- y-you." He says again.

 

"Dean!" You shout at the door. "Sam! Dean!"

 

You hear, rather than see them come near you. They untie his ropes, lifting him up to make him lie down on the floor.

 

"What's your name?" You ask, as Sam calls for an ambulance.

 

His head rolls to a side, his body going still. You press a finger to his pulse and find nothing.

 

"Oh God. Oh God." You rise up from your place beside him to walk to the wall, pressing your forehead to the wood and feeling the tears sting your eyes.

 

_I did this._

 

A few feet away, Sam ends his call. You sense Dean come to stand beside you, touching your shoulder lightly.

 

You turn to face him. He says nothing.

 

You let yourself slide down the walls and dissolve into tears.

 

A heartbeat later, he sits beside you, still saying nothing.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never mind the Latin, it's the exorcism ritual.


	26. What Might Have Been

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a horrible person to make you wait so long.  
> And I have no reason to give for it except that I had started writing the smut and I totally chickened out.  
> But here I am now, having gathered my courage. Smut is coming. In a few chapters.

You let yourself sink into the soft couch, an almost inaudible sigh escaping your lips.

  


Dawn is just breaking, and the first rays of sunshine filter through the gaps between the curtains. They light up the empty bottles, throwing colored shadows on the ground. You watch the dust motes dance in the beams of light, their slow swirling fall almost hypnotic.

  


You raise the bottle to your lips, too weary to think how crazy it is to be beginning a day with beer. That is something your old self would never have done.

  


_My old self would also never have tortured a man to death. And enjoyed doing it._

  


You push that thought away, watching silently as Dean takes a swig from his own bottle.

  


You had tried to catch some sleep during the hour long night drive. But every time you closed your eyes, the images had appeared, as if burned against the back of your eyelids. You had resigned yourself to just staring blankly at the plain landscape rendered grey by the twilight.

  


Somewhere in the house, a shower turns on.

  


Sam. He had refused Dean's offer of a bottle, and had disappeared into one of the rooms after shooting you a disbelieving glance.

  


You take another sip. The liquid is only slightly cold. The sharp bitter taste spreads from the tip of your tongue to the rest of your mouth. You close your eyes, waiting for the alcohol to take effect.

  


It's surprising how desperately you need this now. To numb the guilt stabbing at your heart. To quieten the voices inside your head that are driving you insane. To blur out the images playing behind your eyelids.

  


_What do you see?_ A voice croons.

  


A fiery skeleton's face rises up in your vision, it's empty eye sockets staring at you through rings of fire.

  


_What do you see?_

  


You see two bodies on the ground. Still and unmoving on the asphalt, limbs bent at unnatural angles. A little girl's shrill cry pierces the sky.

  


_What do you see?_

  


You see a man's form, limp on the ground. Beaten and bloody. Rope marks on his wrists.

  


"What is your name?" You ask, but too late. You see the light go out of his eyes.

  


You take another deep swig, letting it fill your mouth. You welcome the light tingle that runs through your body.

  


"Rough night, wasn't it?" Dean speaks from beside you. "The first ones are always the hardest."

  


"Does it ever get easier?" You ask him, opening your eyes.

  


"Yeah. A hell of a lot easier. As you get more... experienced, you don't even flinch." His voice carries a note of sadness, something a less attentive listener would've missed. But you hear it.

  


You look into his eyes and for a moment, you can see it.

  


The self-loathing. The despair. The darkness.

  


But then the mask slides back into place and he grins. Your concern is washed away by his sunny smile.

  


"I can't believe we're actually squatting." Your eyes scan the place, taking in the covered furniture and newly formed cobwebs in the far corners.

  


"Welcome to your life of crime." He whispers, leaning closer.

  


Your breath catches in your throat as the sun lights up the angles of his face.

  


He is all light and shadows. Beautiful, like a painting. His green eyes shimmer as they catch the light and you stifle a gasp.

 

You haven't had enough beer to be drunk. And yet it's the beer you blame as you tear your eyes away with some difficulty.

 

“You got a tattoo?” He asks. “Anywhere interesting?”

 

The smile that plays on his lips and the sparkle in his eyes hold just a hint of mischief in them.

 

“No.” You shake your head. “Sorry to disappoint.”

 

He sets his empty bottle down on the coffee table and rubs his hands together.

 

“Then it’s time you got one.” He says.

 

“Huh?” You touch the bottle to your lips again, feeling the cold rim against your mouth, the fire of it on your tongue.

 

“An anti-possession tattoo.” He leans towards you, almost whispering in a conspiratorial tone.

 

“There’s such a thing as an anti-possession tattoo?”

 

“Yes, ma’am.” He says with a proud face. “I’ve got one. Sam too.”

 

“Wow. What does it look like?”

 

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he undoes the top three buttons of his shirt. He pulls the fabric aside from the left side of his chest.

  


"Wow." You speak in a low reverent whisper, suddenly wishing that you could have been more eloquent.

  


The tattoo is beautiful. It is a simple pentagram inscribed inside a sun, on his chest, right above where his heart would be.

 

In the warm golden glow of the morning sun, it looks... mesmerising.

 

It is as if your fingers have a mind of their own. They move of their own accord, alighting on his chest.

 

He shudders ever so slightly at your touch, but keeps still.

 

Your index finger traces the lines of the pentagram first, your touch soft and light, your heart accelerating with every passing second.

 

He holds his breath. He can see you frown slightly in concentration as you run your fingers hesitantly over the ink lines, almost as if afraid of smudging them.

 

He wonders how it is that you can't feel his heart beating so fast in his chest, right beneath your fingers. He watches as your lips part ever so slightly and your head bows, a strand of your hair falling forward.

 

He thinks about reaching out and touching it. Wrapping it around his finger, or brushing it back to tuck it behind your ear. It scares him how deep he has to dig into his reserves of self-restraint to keep himself still.

 

Your fingers still trace his tattoo, leaving invisible trails on his skin.

 

He wills his racing pulse to slow down, wishing that you would stop and at the same time fearing that you would, that this moment would be lost forever.

 

But then your fingers freeze in place.

 

 _Oh, my God. What the hell am I doing?_ You think, as you come to your senses.

 

You lift your face to look up at him, your cheeks flaming red.

 

You open your mouth as if to apologise, but nothing comes out.

 

His eyes hold yours. They shimmer in the sunlight, his pupils blown wide.

 

His gaze drifts down to settle on your lips and you swallow, a shiver running down your spine.

 

You register how close you are to him. Mere inches are all that is left between you, and the distance feels so wrong.

 

You don't realise that you have left your hand on his chest, but he can still feel it. That is probably what muddles up his thoughts, makes him want to close the distance.

 

He hesitates, just for a moment.

 

"Dean, did you see my..." Sam bursts in.

 

He freezes at the door, his mouth agape.

 

You withdraw your hand from Dean's chest as if burned. Dean hastily buttons up. Flustered, you run your hand through your hair, turning away from him.

  
"Um... I... Excuse me." Sam seems equally flustered. "I'll just... uh..." He points to the room and disappears behind the door, but not before you spot a crooked half-smile on his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter Sam Winchester, Slayer of Demons, Ruiner of Moments.
> 
> Let me know what you think of this chapter. Did you like it? I'm dying to know...


	27. The Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was seriously overwhelmed by your responses to the last chapter. I'm really glad y'all liked it! So I'll be continuing with this fic. Let's see where this story goes.

**_15 years ago._ **

 

The girl stares at the house in the dark. Its doors and windows are shut, staring back at her like a dead man's eyes. Her throat is hoarse from crying and her eyes still sting. A cold wind blows, and she shivers, moving closer to the man standing beside her. He takes a step forward, gently tapping on the door. For some time, there is silence. Then, the sounds of shuffling feet are heard. The door creaks open, revealing a pale face framed by thick black curls.

 

The woman holds a candle in her hand. The flickering flames cast shifting shadows on her face, revealing her heavy eye makeup and bright lips. She doesn't look young, but she looks timeless in a mysterious way. She stands there, silently regarding the girl.

 

"Wilma." The man speaks softly.

 

"Pastor Jim", she acknowledges, not taking her eyes off the child. "This is the girl you told me about? The one with the… _Sight_?"

 

Pastor Jim nods.

 

"And where are her parents?" She asks, lowering the candle to look at her.

 

The girl's face darkens, and her grip on the man's hand tightens. He squeezes her hand reassuringly.

 

The woman notices the exchange between the two. Wordlessly, she opens the door wider to let them in.

 

"We don't have much time. It has to be done tonight." Jim Murphy says as he seats himself in a plush sofa. The girl sits beside him, not leaving his side even for a moment.

 

"So they finally found her." She says with her back to them, rummaging through a large chest on the floor. She takes out a handful of what seem to be dried herbs and some stones. "It's cruel to the child." She says softly.

 

"Give it enough time, and it won't be just the demons after her. There will be other hunters too-- trying to take advantage of the Sight." Pastor Jim says. "We must stop it, erase her memories of all the things she has seen. Then maybe, when they know she doesn't have the gift anymore, the demons will stop."

 

" _Maybe_?" She echoes. "What if they decide that they don't  want to take a risk and finish her once and for all?"

 

"We will hide her well." He assures. He looks at the girl, pats her head and gives her a smile. He turns to the woman. "She will be fine. Once the Sight is gone, she will just be a normal kid."

 

"Must her memories go, too? She will never remember her parents' faces", she says.

 

"I think she will be better off without them." He speaks, his voice wistful. "And all the horrible images that must be in her head-- they will never stop haunting her."

 

"Well. Then it must be done." She sighs. "You know this doesn't actually take away her gift, right? It will always be there inside her, sleeping, biding its time, waiting to be woken up."  
  
"I know", he says.

 

"And you also know that my spell lasts only as long as I live. If I die, the spell dies with me. That’s the way witchcraft works." She says.

 

"I know that too. We should start. Like I said, we don't have much time." He leans forward in his seat. "You have lived longer than anyone I have ever known. I don't think you'll die anytime soon. Or ever."

 

She chuckles-- a dry, humourless sound.

 

"That's not what I meant." She says.

 

The woman sits across from her and lights the candles on the coffee table. The flames illuminate strange drawings on the table-top.

 

"Wait. What if one of the demons find their way here?" He asks. "It would be dangerous for her if the ritual is interrupted.

 

"No demon will interrupt us here." She smiles cryptically, raising her eyes to the ceiling.

 

The girl looks up. There, painted on the ceiling is an enormous symbol. It is a five-pointed star inscribed in a circle, and some words written in a strange script, in the spaces between the points.

 

Smoke starts rising from behind the woman, and a sharp, sweet smell fills the room.

* * *

 

**_Present day._ **

 

Dean Winchester stares hard at the newspaper in front of him. Sam peers from behind his laptop screen, struggling to conceal a smile.

 

"It's upside down." He finally calls out.

 

"Huh?" Dean looks at him, frowning.

 

Sam points at the newspaper that is spread out before him. He hastily rights it, muttering something under his breath.

 

"You seem a little distracted, Dean." He says, a sly grin starting at the corners of his mouth. "I thought you weren't into.. _prude chicks_ ", he says, making air-quotes with his fingers.

 

"Look if this is about earlier, it's not what you think." Dean says, not meeting his brother's eyes.

 

"What did _I_ think?" Sam throws his hands up in the air, feigning innocence.

 

"You know very well what you were thinking. And it's not that. I was just showing her my tattoo." He says defensively.

 

"So if I hadn't walked in on you two, you wouldn't have… uh, kissed her or anything?"

 

"No. It was nothing." Dean says, exasperated. "And this conversation is over. I swear, if you start on this again, I'll punch you in the face."

 

Dean returns to scanning the newspaper. Ironically, he finds himself thinking of you again, of what might have happened if Sam hadn't walked in.

 

How it might have felt like to kiss you, to feel your lips parting under his, your frantic heartbeats matching his own. How you might have smelled. How your hair might have felt beneath his fingers.

 

"Hey, Dean. Take a look at this." Sam's voice wakes him from his reverie.


	28. A Dream Within a Dream

"Hold on a second, Sam. We're actually going to this place based on some crazy neighbour's story?" Dean says, leaning back in his seat.

 

"They said there was a witch living near their house, Dean. They say that she was giving appointments, telling people she could make things happen for them." Sam explains. "And it seems she had a set of loyal clients. The neighbours say some shady-looking people used to visit her regularly."

 

"She's most likely a phony." Dean says dismissively.

 

"She disappeared, three months ago." Sam goes on. "And no one has been able to find her. It's like she vanished off the face of the earth."

 

"Maybe one of her loyal clients got wind of the fact that she was a fraud, and she ran for it."

 

"I have a feeling that she's a real witch, Dean" Sam says in the end.

 

"Oh, right. You’re the psychic." Dean gets up. "All right, Sammy, we'll check it out."

* * *

 

The house looks forlorn and abandoned, standing in the midst of nowhere. Fallen leaves litter the porch. The doors and windows remain shut, unseeing and unwelcoming.

 

_Like a dead man's eyes._

 

You feel a shiver run through you. It's like walking into one of your dreams, an inexplicable sense of having been there before. Having stood at that very spot, having felt the wind chill you to the bones, a long time ago.

 

A forgotten dream.

 

You make your way to the door, where Dean frowns in concentration, trying to pick the lock. Sam stands beside him, his face still holding that knowing smile. You scowl at him.

 

The door creaks open. The interior is dark and dusty, as if unused for years. Dean pulls back the heavy curtain from the window, letting the light in. You gaze at his silhouette and something flutters in your chest as you remember the last day. The memory of his bare chest, his green eyes glimmering in the sunlight, the way your heart had stopped for a moment when you had registered how close you were.

 

They had kept you awake all night.

 

You shake your head as if to clear your thoughts, admonishing your over-active imagination for dreaming up things that weren't there.

 

You're not his type, after all.

 

If there was the slightest possibility that he was attracted to you, he would have hit on you the day he met you, the classic Dean Winchester way. The fact that he hasn't even dropped a hint in all the time you have known means he is just not interested. End of story.

 

Even then, you can't help hoping that you might mean something to him.

 

 _Highly_ _unlikely_. You tell yourself harshly.

 

Cobwebs dangle from every nook and corner, having draped themselves over everything in the house, painting them a uniform grey-brown. An overturned sofa leans against the far wall. A small, low table stands in the centre of the room. Looking at it, you feel an eerie chill creeping up your spine.

 

As if in a trance, you walk over to it, brushing the dust away with your hand. Your fingers find the remains of candlestubs and blotches of dripped candlewax.

 

Patterns emerge from beneath the cover of grime. Strange drawings carved into the wood, pentagrams and unfamiliar script.

 

The brothers eye you warily as you leave the table to make your way to a corner of the room. You kneel down on the wooden floor and pull the chest to you.

 

A spider escapes as you open it, scuttling over your hand before hopping onto the ground and running out of sight.

 

The inside of the chest is a jumble of things.

 

Dried herbs separated into labelled containers. Stones. Spellbooks. Bottles of potions.

 

Sam takes over as you get up. As he crouches down, sifting through the things, Dean walks over to the window, brushing aside some dust from the sill. Something powdery clings to his fingers. He raises his hand to his nose, smelling it.

 

"It's sulphur." He says.

 

"A demon attack." Sam clarifies for you, still looking through the dead woman's belongings.

 

"Demons here… That can't be possible. There's a devil's trap on the ceiling--"

 

You clap a hand over your mouth, alarmed at what you are saying.

 

Startled, all three of you look up.

 

There, painted on the wood, is the devil's trap. A crack runs across it, rendering it useless, making it quite easy for any demon to get in.

 

"How did you know it was there?" Dean's voice is low and cautious.

 

You try to give him a nonchalant shrug, not daring to meet his eyes.

 

"I was watching you the whole time. From the time you got in, you never looked up. Then how did you know it was there? How did you know your way around this place? How did you know that chest was there?" He points at the corner. "You've been acting like you have been here before."

 

You sigh, passing a hand over your eyes, somehow feeling drained.

 

"I don't know, Dean, I swear. But something about this place…" You look around. "It feels familiar. As if out of a dream. I wish I could explain. But the truth is, I don’t know the meaning of any of this anymore."

 

Silence falls while Dean continues to frown, obviously wary of you.

 

After a pause, Sam opens his mouth.

 

"There's your name in here." He says quietly.

 

Dean walks over to his brother, all but tearing the piece of paper away from him.

 

It is old and yellowed, full of wrinkles. Dean places it against a wall, smoothing it out.

 

Even from where you stand, you can make out your name written in a large scrawny hand. But there's something else beside it.

 

A date, and a name.

 

_10/28/1991_

_Jim Murphy._

* * *

 

The man raises the knife high above his head. The blade glitters in the dim light, flashing as he brings it down hard. A grunt escapes him. Warm blood sprays on his face. He closes his eyes and lets the knife clatter to the ground, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

 

He gets up, looking down at the face of the dead vampire. Its fangs still show through its open mouth. He makes a disgusted noise as he kicks the head. It separates from the body and rolls, leaving a trail of red on the floor.

 

Strolling towards a window and planting a foot on the sill, he pulls his cell phone from his pocket. The light that shines through the window reflects off his large, round forehead.

 

"Kubrick, it's Gordon", he says in a gruff voice. "I have some news on the Winchesters. The girl you were talking about is with them."

 

A drop of blood clings to his thumb. He rubs it against the windowpane, leaving a smear on the glass.

 

"What do you say we kill three birds with one stone?"


	29. Tell Me Your Secrets and I'll Tell You Mine

You press your forehead to the dusty glass, looking at the unkempt garden outside, at the overgrown plants and the bunches of flowers that appear as splashes of colour. It looks beautiful in a wild, untamed sort of way, the kind of beauty that would thrive in neglect.

 

You can see the brothers' forms reflected on the glass, faint and ghostlike. Dean, standing as still as a statue, Sam right beside him.

 

Both of them waiting for you to speak.

 

"Truth is, I don't even know who I am anymore." You begin.

 

There is a lump in your throat that makes it hard to speak. It's not easy to mask the trembling in your voice. But as much effort as it takes, you manage to keep it steady.

 

"It all started that day at Bobby's when I saw that devil's trap on the ceiling. It was like something had clicked inside me." You trace patterns on the dust with your finger. "I… I knew I had seen it before. I just couldn't remember where."

 

You close your eyes.

 

"And that night, the dreams started. I dreamt that I was a ten year old, that my parents were worried about something-- about me, actually. I had been seeing things. They were afraid that I was going crazy." You pause, still drawing irregular circles with your finger. "A man named Jim Murphy-- Pastor Jim-- came to visit me."

 

The name makes them both start.

 

"It was too vivid to be a dream. Too clear on details. It was more like a memory. A snippet of my memory that had come back to me."

 

You turn to face them.

 

"I wanted to find out what it was all about. I didn't know enough to tell you." You take a deep breath. "Hell, I didn't know _what_ to tell you." Your lips curl into a wry smile.

 

"And then there was that incident with the demon." You purse your lips.

 

"I saw it's true form, Dean."

 

"No one has ever seen a demon's true form." His voice is low, and his eyes betray his disbelief.

 

"I know." You nod.

 

"It was the most horrible thing I had ever seen. If I had looked at it for more than a minute, I think I would have gone insane." Your hands curl into fists, nails digging deep into flesh. But you feel nothing.

 

"I could remember something else then. I remembered that Pastor Jim had come to our house. We were on the run, trying to escape them. The demons were behind us." You let out a breath you didn't realise you were holding.

 

" _He_ found us, though. The demon. He killed my parents, right in front of me. And that's the last thing I can remember of my past." You stare at the floor, at the cracks between the wooden floorboards.  
  
"When I saw this house, I had a feeling that I had been here before. Everything seemed so strangely familiar. I don't know how, but I knew that the chest would be there, I knew what I would find inside it." You walk over to the table, passing them. You run your hand over the engraved patterns. "I knew these inscriptions would be here. I knew that the devil's trap was on the ceiling before I even looked."

 

"I am searching for answers too, Dean." You look into his eyes, searching for some sign that he believes you. But they reveal nothing but guarded watchfulness.

 

"I don't know the whole truth yet. I thought I could find Pastor Jim somehow. I thought he could tell me about my past."

 

"There's no hope of that now." Dean says in a dry tone. "He was killed by a demon."

 

"You knew him?" Your eyes widen.

 

"He was a hunter too", Sam says. "A friend of dad's. When we were kids, whenever dad went on hunting trips, he would tell us to call Pastor Jim if something came up."

 

Silence hangs heavy in the air while you mull over the words. 

 

_Jim Murphy. The key to your past. Dead._

 

"You remember the Colt?" Dean asks.

 

"Yeah." You nod, confused by the turn of the conversation. "The weapon that can kill anything."

 

"We never told you what happened to the rest of the bullets, did we?" He smiles at you. "Well, you'll get to hear the whole story on the way."

 

He strolls out the door, not waiting for you.

 

"Wait. Where are we going?" You call out behind him.

 

"Minnesota." He says.

 

* * *

 

"Damn!" Gordon slams his fist on the hood of the car.

 

"Calm down, Gordon. I'm sure God has a plan for us." Kubrick walks up to him, his hands buried in his pockets.

 

"We missed them by like fifteen minutes. Fifteen damn minutes." He kicks the tyre in anger. "And we don't know where they're headed. There's nothing in that damn house that would give us a clue."

 

"Oh, I wouldn't say so." Kubrick holds up a piece of paper. "I found this lying about. You heard of this guy Jim Murphy?"

 

Gordon takes it from him, smoothing out the wrinkles on it.

 

"Oh, yeah. Dear old Pastor Jim." He chuckles.

 

"Never was a great friend of mine." He wrinkles his nose. "He didn't like my _methods_. Anyway, he's dead, from what I heard."

 

"He might be, Gordon. But he's gonna lead us to this girl." Kubrick smiles. "I can hear the Holy Spirit talking to me."

 

"So you think we should go check out his place?" Gordon asks.

 

"I have a feeling that's where our friends are headed." He replies.

 

"It's a long drive to Minnesota."  Gordon says.

 

* * *

 

"You know how our dad became a hunter?" Dean asks.

 

You shake your head.

 

"He wanted to find who had killed our mother. Or rather, _what_."

 

His eyes are fixed on the road ahead, and he keeps his tone casual, as if he's just talking about a movie. But you notice how his lips are set in a thin line, how his hands grip the wheel tight.

 

"You don't have to talk about this", you say.

 

"No. I have to", he says. "We shouldn't keep secrets anymore."

 

"Then we're also telling her the truth about me, Dean." Sam speaks up from the back seat.

 

"Sammy..." Dean begins, but Sam cuts him off.

 

"You said it yourself, Dean. No more secrets. We're telling her everything. And that means about me, about the yellow-eyed demon, mom, dad, _everything_." He leans forward so his face is between the front seats. "I trust her, Dean. And I think you should too."


	30. Taken

_Blue Earth, Minnesota_

 

The church, with its high ceiling and stained glass windows inspires a sense of awe. A candlestick stands unlit on a table at the altar, beside a chalice. An open Bible lies in the centre, and a man silently flips the pages.

 

Your footsteps echo in the church as you walk towards him. He raises his head.

 

"Good morning. How may I help you?" He says with a smile.

 

"We're from the FBI", Dean says. "We're looking into the murder of Pastor Jim Murphy."

 

His eyes narrow as he steps down from the altar.

 

"I thought the investigation was over. And I haven't seen you here before, officers." He looks at each of your faces, lingering for a while longer on yours. "Would you mind showing me your IDs?"

 

"Oh, sure." Dean fishes around in his pocket before holding it before him. "I'm Agent Harrison."

 

"Agent Ford." Sam says, displaying his badge.

 

The pastor looks at you expectantly.

 

"Uh… Agent Drew." You manage to stammer out. The man takes a second to inspect your fake badge, and then he smiles, satisfied.

 

"You will forgive me if I'm being paranoid. After all, it is inside this very church that the gruesome incident took place", he says. "What did you want to look at?"

 

"We were thinking of going into the basement. You know, where the body was found", you say. "Just make sure we haven't missed anything."

 

"Of course. It's this way", he says. "It was a shock to all of us when we found the hidden arsenal there. And all those notes."

 

"They were all taken away, weren't they?" You ask.

 

"They took all the weapons. As for the documents, we transferred them for storage at the church library. It's not open to the public, though. Just for safekeeping."

 

"Would you mind if we took a look at that?" You ask tentatively.

 

"Oh, not at all." He turns to a different door. "May I ask why you might be interested in that? It's just that they pertain to something of occult and supernatural nature. I thought people did not believe in them anymore."

 

"Oh, we don't, Pastor", you say. "We just think they might point us in the right direction. That's all. We want to make sure we have covered everything."

 

He opens the door to a small room almost filled with rows of shelves. The smell of old books fill the air, and you inhale deeply, unable to help yourself. The Pastor makes his way to the far end, where a locked cupboard stands. He slides the key in the lock and opens it.

 

"These were all found pinned to the walls", he says, retrieving a file of loose sheets of paper. "And these are the other books they found there. I haven't really had a chance to look at them, I must admit." He gestures to the books arranged neatly one on top of another.

 

"I'm afraid I must leave you here now. I have some rather pressing matters to attend to." He says with a smile, turning to go.

 

"That's no trouble, Pastor. Thank you for your help", you say.

 

You watch his retreating figure as Dean leans in.

 

"Handled that like a pro", he whispers, and you beam at him before scanning the titles.

 

 _The Lesser Key of Solomon. The Book of Shadows._ And some other titles you don't recognise.

 

And then, on the bottom of the pile, you find an unmarked, leather-bound book.

 

* * *

 

 "We're not doing it inside a church, Gordon", Kubrick says, his voice stern. "This is hallowed ground. No bloodshed here."

 

"Then what else do we do?" Gordon asks.

 

"We wait for them, outside", he says. "When they come out, we wait for one of them to separate from the group. And then, we get hold of the person."

 

"And?" Gordon asks, impatient and mildly irritated.

 

"Think, man. If we have one of them in our hands, then the other two will follow", he replies.

 

"I don't really like this cat and mouse game, man." Gordon huffs.

 

"Well, if you need my help, you do this my way." Kubrick states calmly.

 

* * *

 

 

You take the journal out. It's old and worn, resembling John Winchester's journal. You open it to find dated entries. Your heart thumps in your chest as you flip the pages.

 

Your name appears in one of the pages, and you stop.

 

You look up at the brothers.

 

"Umm... Can I go outside with this? I just feel like being alone, and I need some air", you say. "I promise I won't run away."

 

Dean chuckles and nods. You hastily make your way out of the room as the brothers start looking through the other documents. You leave the library behind, crossing the large hall and hurrying out the door.

 

You look up at the darkening sky, at the clouds gathering in the western horizon, heralding the arrival of rain. A wind blows, whipping your hair about your face. As you hold on to the journal with one hand and try to tame your wild locks with the other, a flash of movement catches your eye.

 

The Impala is right where it was parked. But there is a red El Camino just a few feet behind it now, seemingly empty.

 

But something doesn't seem right. So you make your way over to it, somehow taking comfort from the feeling of the gun pressing against your back from where you hid it in the waistband of your jeans.

 

_It's not like I know how to use it, anyway._

 

The flash of movement you registered was likely a product of your imagination, but you go on towards the car.

 

_Just to be sure._

 

You walk around the vehicle, listening for any strange noise. But there is nothing. Just the rustle of leaves being swept up by the wind. You heave a sigh of relief.

 

And just as you turn, you find yourself staring down at the barrel of a gun.

 

The stranger before you is tall, his head almost hairless and his body looking as if cast of iron. He holds the gun steady in front of your chest, his eyes, his posture, everything about him screaming crazy and dangerous.

 

You take a step back and he cocks the rifle, making you freeze mid-step.

 

"Who are you?" You ask, watching his every movement carefully.

 

"I'm not gonna hurt you. Just come with me", he says.

 

You are not convinced. And it doesn't help how this seems to remind you of another man who had put a gun to your spine and made you go with him.

 

"Who. Are. You?" You bite out every word.

 

"Gordon Walker. Old friend of Dean's", he says finally.

 

"Funny he never mentioned you", you say, raising an eyebrow.

 

"Enough with the small talk. Just come with me. I have some things I'd like to discuss with you", he says. 

 

"If you wanted to discuss something with someone, threatening them with a gun is not the way to go about it", you say.

 

"Oh yeah?" He moves the gun forward so it almost touches your ribs. "Get in the car."

 

You stare at him for a moment, calculating the odds in your mind. Can you possibly get your gun out before he pulls the trigger?

 

He motions with the tip of the gun toward the car door.

 

You comply, opening the door to get in. But Gordon stops you, yanking the journal from your grasp.

 

"Hand me the gun", another voice says from behind you. The man gives you a thin lipped smile.

 

"Listen, girl. You don't want to fight God's plans", he says, watching you hesitate.

 

You pull the gun out of your pocket and hand it to him. He takes it, and slams the car door behind you.

 

As the car pulls ahead of the Impala, you find your heart beating wildly in your chest. But as the first drops of rain hit the metal body of the car, you feel a sense of calm determination wash over you.

 

 _I'll get myself out of this_. You promise yourself.


	31. Empty Eyes

It grows darker and darker as you climb down the stairs. The sound of rain gets muffled with each step you take, to be replaced by the loud creaking of wood under your feet.

 

You try to crane your neck to look ahead, past Gordon's tall frame blocking your view. There's nothing but the low ceiling  and rows of unlit and sometimes broken lamps.

 

You clasp your fingers together behind your back. The zip-tie around your wrists makes your skin chafe with every movement you make. You wiggle your hands back and forth, trying to find some room for movement.

 

Something cold touches your back, right on that spot at the base of your spine, and you shiver. A silent reminder that there's another man-- Kubrick-- behind you, his gun ready and pointed right at you. The nudge of the gun is enough to keep you moving, keep you from trying anything.

 

_For now._

 

Where the stairs end, there is a plain wooden door. A sliver of yellow light shines from under it.

 

Gordon turns the knob, opening it and then stepping aside. You are pushed from behind. You gasp, falling face-first onto the floor, your bound hands not any help in breaking your fall. You grunt in pain and roll onto your back.

 

The door shuts, muffling the sound of footsteps that fade into the distance.

 

You don't hear the rain anymore.

 

You stare up at the naked lightbulb hanging overhead, inhaling the thick musty air. You sit up, and your hair falls over your eyes, tickling your nose.

 

There is an indistinct murmur from your left. You pause to listen.

 

_Nothing._

 

"Hello?" You whisper, getting up on your knees and crawling towards the source of the sound. "Anybody there?"

 

There's nothing but a solid wall there.

 

A faint murmur rises from the other side. A soft, chanting whisper in a woman's voice. A few inches right of where you are.

 

You shift, trying to pinpoint the exact location of the voice.

 

The voice begins again, slightly louder now. Still unintelligible, like it’s in some other language.

 

_Latin?_

 

You place your hand on the wall, right on the spot from which the sound seems to be coming.

 

The brick moves under your touch. You give it a light push and it moves right through, falling off at the other side of the wall, leaving a rectangular hole.

 

A woman lies slouched against a wall, her wrists bound just like yours are. Her hair is almost completely white, with a few streaks of black here and there. Her face is wrinkled, and there are lines around the corners of her mouth and her forehead. She is dressed in what looks like grey rags.

 

You see her fingers shake, and her lips move in incoherent chanting.

 

It's like a blinding flash of light in your brain. You clutch your forehead, stumbling back. Faces swim before your eyes.

 

_Two faces._

 

One you recognise as the familiar face of Pastor Jim.

 

The other is that of a woman.

 

A pale face framed by thick black curls. Her eyes yes lined, her lips painted a bright crimson.

 

You clap your hands over your mouth to stop yourself from shouting.

 

You crawl towards the hole again, looking at the withered figure before you. Her pupils look almost translucent. You find her staring at you with an empty gaze.

 

"Wilma?" You say, hesitantly.

 

The face you remember is young. Timeless, in an odd way. But the face you see now is old and lined and wrinkled. 

 

"What did they do to you?" You whisper.

 

Her eyes continue their long, empty stare into yours. Her lips continue to chant in some strange language.

 

"Well." You let out a sigh. "Shit."


	32. Escape

Sam peers from behind the book at his brother, noticing his restlessness. He shifts from foot to foot, drums his fingers on the wooden desk, and though he reads-- or pretends to read-- the documents that lay scattered all over the desk, his eyes flick to the door every ten seconds or so.

 

It's like he's been caged in his own body.

 

So when a minute later, when Dean clears his throat and announces that he's just going to check up on you real quick, he barely raises an eyebrow.

 

Dean begins to hear the rain as he makes his way between the rows of pews. That would explain it, he thinks. The rain would explain your long absence. You could have been outside when you were caught unawares by the rain and you had to take shelter somewhere. You would probably be standing huddled close to a wall or under a tree, looking up at the sky, at the clouds, at the relentless pouring of water. You would be waiting for the rain to ease off so you could run inside without getting drenched.

 

He tells himself that, but the uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach doesn't settle.

 

When he finally makes it outside of the high arched doorway, the roar of the rain greets him, rising like a chorus.

  

Water comes down in steady streams, beating down on his head, dripping from the tips of his hair and soaking through his clothes to his skin. Water runs in tiny rivulets down his face. They swell as they run along his jaws, and then trickle down his chin.

 

He blinks the drops away from his lashes as he stands there, staring at the empty stretch of road. It looks lonely. Forlorn, but for the faint outline of the Impala that appears through the curtain of rain.

 

* * *

 

It's like there are bees buzzing inside your skull. Your irritation at the constant hum of her voice, combined with the frustration of being unable to get the binds off of you makes you want to scream.

 

She has been going on like this for an hour now. You had tried to talk to her, tried to get her to say something in English-- but to no avail. She keeps muttering, chanting, and sometimes you catch a familiar word, like _aqua_ or _anima_ or _corporis._

 

She never stops. And she drives you mad.

 

You bite down on your lip, resisting the urge to bang your head against the wall when you hear footsteps.

 

The humming stops.

 

Gordon opens the door and stands there, not even bothering to step inside. He throws a brown packet at you.

 

From where it lands on your lap, you can see it’s a burger. You stare at the man.

 

"Not the brightest of the bulbs are you?" You sneer at him. "My hands are tied behind my back."

 

He stays there for a while, looking at the burger, then back at you, before crossing into the room and stooping near you. You see the flash of a blade in the yellow light. In one neat slice, the zip tie falls to the floor. In two pieces.

 

"Eat", he says. "I have to tie you up again before I go."

  
  
The greasy, meaty aroma hits you hard. You wish you could just finish it, let Gordon bind your wrists again, let the door shut on you. Because you are _starving,_ and you are tired. But if you did, you would never get out.

 

So you take a tiny bite out of it. Then another, and another.

 

When you start coughing, Gordon barely pays attention. But when the cough turns violent and your whole body shakes, he frowns. You let the burger fall from your grasp, doubling over on the floor. You claw at the floor with your nails and it seems like you're trying to cry out, but no sound would come out of your throat.

 

Your movements slow down, and Gordon watches, confused.

 

And then you go still.

 

He finally understands.

 

 _Choked on a damn burger._  

 

He wants to kick your body. All the work they put in, all that planning-- gone. In minutes. He wants to smash your stupid head against the wall.

 

If only he had decided to stick with his own plan instead of listening to Kubrick. If only he had put a gun to your head and threatened to shoot your brains out if you didn’t do as told.

 

But Kubrick would have none of it. _Mellow her down,_ he had said. _Give her food. Prove to her that we aren’t monsters. Tell her the truth about Sam Winchester. Bring her over to our side._

Bullshit.

 

The girl with the Sight. You would have been a mighty weapon in their hands, if you were alive.

 

Now that you are dead and cold, you are useless. You’re a corpse that he would have to bury. You are unwanted trouble.

 

But.

 

But you might not be _dead_ yet. You might just be unconscious.

 

So he reaches to turn you over.

 

And that's when your hand shoots out, grabbing hold of the gun sticking out of his waistband.

 

Gordon blinks at his own gun, pointed at him, by you.

 

You can't believe it worked. You can't believe that the silly plan that hatched in your brain right at the moment the burger fell into your lap actually worked. It's laughable.

 

So you laugh.

 

You laugh as you grip the gun tight with both of your hands, pointing it straight at his chest.

 

 _Don't aim. Point._ You hear Dean's voice in your mind.

 

You put all your strength, all your mind into just keeping it pointed at him. And you get up. Slowly.

 

"Get on your knees and put your hands where I can see them", you say.

 

Gordon does as he's told.

 

But you don't fail to notice the way his expression darkens, the way his jaws clench. The way his muscles tense, as if to say that he would rip you to pieces for this humiliation.

 

Maybe not now. But sometime. Someday.

 

 _Soon._ Gordon promises himself in his mind.


	33. The Hunter, the Witch and the Storeroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took so long to update. I was just busy with some schoolwork.  
> Hope you enjoy the chapter!

Keys. Too many keys.

 

You curse under your breath as you try one key after the other on the lock. A crash sounds from the adjacent room-- the room you just shut him in-- as Gordon throws his body against the door.

 

"Why won't it just f***ing open?" You curse as you fumble with the keys.

 

Another one of them fails. From next-door, Gordon starts yelling for Kubrick.

 

"Shut up, you son of a bitch. Or I'll put a gun in your mouth." You bang your fist against the door.

 

He stops, but only for a moment.

 

You won't make good on your promise, he knows that. You are too soft for that. He could see that in your eyes even when you had had a gun pointed at him.

 

You're no hunter, you're just a pathetic human who somehow managed to lock him up in his own prison. That was luck, he tells himself. Sheer dumb luck.

 

But luck wouldn't serve you all the time.

 

Another crash sounds and you close your eyes and open them, trying to focus on finding the right key.

 

"Please. Be the one." You whisper as you try the next key. It turns smoothly in the lock, and you heave a sigh of relief.

 

The door opens to reveal the frail figure of a woman leaning against the wall, lips moving in the same meaningless chant.

 

As you kneel before her, her eyes scan your face. It’s a disinterested, cursory glance. Her eyes don't light up in recognition.

 

"It's me, Wilma. Do you remember me? I was a little girl when you last saw me. You helped me then." She stares blankly at you. "You remember Pastor Jim?"

 

"Jim", she says.

 

"Yes. Pastor Jim. Do you remember him?"

 

She returns to whatever Latin chant she was repeating. She tilts her head as her lips form the words, her greying hair falling over her eyes.

 

"Oh my God, Wilma." Your fingers touch her wrinkled her face. "What did they do to you?"

 

"Kubrick. Kubrick! Get down here." Gordon's voice yells out and something heavy crashes against the door again.

 

"Come on. We gotta get out of here before the other one comes down."

 

She stares uncomprehendingly at you, making no move to get up.

 

"Come on." You place a hand behind her back and with the other pull her to her feet. She feels incredibly light as if she's just a bag of bones. You look at her, noticing how her skin hangs loose in places.

 

"Did they starve you?" You ask, expecting no reply.

 

And you get none.

 

But this time, there is a slight tremor in the monotonous hum of her voice that you don't fail to notice.

 

And then you hear the footsteps coming down the stairs.

* * *

 

"How the hell did you end up here?" That's the first thing that comes out of his mouth as he opens the door to see his friend inside the tiny room.

 

He intends to be sympathetic, but Gordon hears the mocking in his tone.

 

_Yes, Gordon. Tell me how that happened. She was unarmed and tied up. You had a gun and a knife and a lifetime of experience as a hunter. How did she get the best of you?_

 

Gordon pushes past him roughly.

 

"I swear if I find that bitch…"

 

"You'll what? You know we still need her, don't you? Alive."

 

"Oh, she'll be _alive_ alright. I'll keep her alive and awake while I tear the skin from her flesh."

 

Kubrick opens his mouth to say something, but something in Gordon's eyes scares him into silence.

* * *

 

You raise yourself up on tiptoes, reaching out with your hand to touch the sill, feeling the wetness. The cool air from outside blows gently on your fingers through the high window.

 

You can smell it now-- the rain. It's so faint, so fragile that you need to inhale deeply to fill your lungs with it. The fresh, crisp air. It smells like freedom to you.

 

You just need to make the climb and then you're out.

 

And then you remember _her_. You seek her through the semi-darkness of the tiny storeroom. She sits among piles of cardboard boxes, some almost toppling over.

 

"Don't worry about me", she says, her voice a half-whisper and her eyes glinting. "You should go before they find us."

 

She laughs gently at your amazement.

 

"No. I wasn't crazy. Just pretending."

 

"Why?" You finally manage to find your voice.

 

"That seemed like the best way to survive their interrogation. One doesn't ask too many questions to a madwoman, you know." She leans back.

 

"How long did they keep you here?" You ask.

 

"Can't really tell. It's easy to lose track of time when you’re shut in a six by eight feet room with no windows. Must've been a month. They wanted to know where Jim Murphy had hidden you. I wouldn't speak, so they starved me."

 

She remains silent for some time, staring at the floor.

 

"I grew weaker. My magic grew weaker. I aged. I wasn't this old, wrinkled, white-haired mess when they brought me here, you know." She laughs a bitter laugh.

 

"I looked young. As young as I was that night when you first saw me. Then I lost my power. Age just… caught up with me."

 

She sighs, and sits straighter, looking into your eyes.

 

"Anyway, you should leave now. Before it's too late."

 

It would be easy to. You could just climb up through that window and run for it, and forget the woman before you ever existed. You would be free, safe.

 

But she would die. Or worse…

 

Too many people have suffered for you. Not anymore.

 

"I can't."


	34. Monster

The shadows lurking in every corner seem to jump out at you as you make your way through the corridor, gun held firmly in hand. There is a rhythmic thumping ahead of you that seems to get louder and louder as you walk forward. Emerging from a corner, you see Kubrick, his back turned to you, hitting the lock with the bottom of a fire extinguisher.

 

You approach him, making as little sound as possible. He seems to be oblivious to your presence as he mounts blow upon blow on the lock.

 

You ready the revolver, pointing it straight at his head.

 

"Turn around."

 

The moment the words leave your mouth, you feel something tightening around your neck. You are yanked back. You lose your footing and fall, crashing into something solid behind you.

 

The chain tightens around your neck, the metal biting into your skin. You gasp for breath, your hands moving up to your neck. The gun slips from your fingers clattering to the floor.

 

Gordon's smiling face appears in your vision.

 

He pulls hard on the chain and you fall. You hear rattling as he unwinds the chain and you cough, taking in huge gulps of air. Tears stream down your face.

 

"You. A hunter. Ha!" Gordon spits. "You're pathetic, you know that?"

 

You spread your hands on the floor, trying to raise yourself up when Gordon's boot makes contact with your right hand. He grinds the heel into your hand and you feel the weight crushing your fingers. You bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out and you taste blood.

 

"Careful, Gordon. We still need her alive." Kubrick warns.

 

"You listen to me now, you bitch. You do whatever we tell you." Gordon grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking your head back to make you look at his face. "And maybe you wouldn't suffer too much."

 

He lets go. Your forehead hits the ground. He crouches beside you.

 

"Now listen. I know it’s not entirely your fault. It's just that the Winchesters found you before we did." His voice lowers to a whisper. "You don't really know what _he_ is, do you? Little Sammy Winchester?"

 

You roll, facing Gordon.

 

"Sam is kind, brave, selfless…" You say, enjoying the grimace on Gordon's face as each word leaves your mouth.

 

"He's a monster!" He yells, his dagger whooshing in the air before striking the floor right between your fingers.

 

Your breath leaves you for a moment. Then you look him in the eye and gather your courage.

 

" _You_ ", you say. "Are the monster."

 

"No, no, no, sweetheart. You've got it all wrong. He's got demon's blood in him." He says, watching your face, frowning when he sees no surprise in your features.   
 

"You already knew that, didn't you?"

 

"Sam may have demon's blood in him", you say, raising yourself up on your elbows. "But he chooses to be a hunter. He chooses to risk his life every day to save innocent people."

 

You sit up.

 

"But you. _You_ are human, but you choose to be a monster. You chose to starve and torture a woman to the brink of madness. You chose to kidnap me and hold me hostage-- just for your selfishness."

 

You feel your own rage boil inside you and spread like fire through your veins. It clouds your vision, and you don’t see how Gordon's expression darkens with your every word. You don't see how his lips twist.

  
"You might think you're a hunter, Gordon. But you're no better than the things you hunt."

 

And you don’t see, until it's too late, the dagger he picks up from the ground and thrusts at you, right to the centre of your ribcage, his fury propelling his arm. His eyes glow like burning coal, and his mouth contorts in a snarl.

 

Your eyes widen as the blade comes close, and everything seems to slow down. You hear your own blood gushing in your veins, you hear the thumping of your heart and the deafening silence as it skips a beat, then another.

 

Kubrick yells something, his hand wildly swiping in the air to grab Gordon's arm.

 

But too late, too slow.

 

You don't even have time to think about _him_ before the blade makes contact with your skin, piercing through the fabric.


	35. No More Hiding

_This is how I die._

 

You watch the blade swing in an arc in the air, flashing as it catches light. You see Gordon's face, contorted with rage, his veins standing up on his neck. You see Kubrick's eyes widen.

 

And you feel the sharp edge tearing through your shirt and touch your skin. You close your eyes and pray the pain doesn’t last long.

 

It never comes.

 

Instead, you feel a gust of wind rushing past you. You open your eyes just in time to see two bodies hit the wall hard and then fall to the ground in a heap. Bright light surrounds you.

 

At the end of the corridor, Wilma stands, her right hand outstretched. As the light fades back into her palms, she sways on her feet. You reach her just in time, catching her body as it collapses onto the floor.

 

Her eyes flutter shut, and she groans. You watch in horror as the rest of her hairs turn white, from the roots to the tips, and more wrinkles appear on her skin.

 

She half-opens her eyes to look at you. Her right hand shakes as she clenches her fist and squeezes it, murmuring something. When she opens it, you see a folded piece of paper resting on her upturned palm.

 

She offers it to you and you take it from her, your heart thumping as you unfold the letter.

 

It begins with your name.

 

_"You are sitting right before me as I write this letter. You are so young, and it’s so unfair that you have to go through this so early in your life. If I explained everything to you now, you would not understand. So I am putting this in writing, trusting that this will find your way to you should you ever need it._

 

_And I hope you may never need it._

 

_If you are reading this now, then you already know something. Your head is probably swimming with questions. I do not have all the answers-- some of them you will have to discover for yourself. But I can tell you all I know._

 

_There are dark things that walk the earth. Things that are pure evil. Unimaginable, unthinkable evil. They are called demons. They are tortured souls that rise from the depths of hell, the last shred of their humanity burned away, having no mercy or compassion left in them._

 

_And there are hunters. Men and women of flesh and blood who have dedicated their lives to fighting the demons. And they have been fighting for ages. But every time, even when the hunters gave it their all, the demons always came out on top. Because they can walk among us, undetected. Wearing the guises of our friends and family, deceiving us every step of the way._

 

_No one had been able to see through their disguises until the first person came along who had the_ Sight. _They could see through the disguises that demons wore, right through to their rotten souls. They could sense their presence. They joined hands with hunters and for the first time, hunters could actually stand their ground._

 

_But then something started happening._

 

_Demons' true forms are said to be a terrible to be seen by the mortal eye. Some of the seers started going insane. Some killed themselves, others spent their lives broken and driven mad by despair._

 

_So hunters decided that they would no longer use the seers. They decided that it was nothing was worth putting an innocent's life and sanity on the line._

 

_But they were still in danger. They were always pursued by demons who wanted to kill them, and by some hunters who still wanted to use them._

 

_So a small group of hunters took it upon themselves to keep your kind safe._

 

_I'm the last member of the group. And you are the only one with the Sight that I have seen in my lifetime._

 

_I know it's cruel to alter your memories, but it has to be done. For the sake of your safety. For the sake of your sanity._

 

_Wilma is going to place a spell on you in just an hour. The spell will block your abilities. You will not see those dreadful faces anymore. You will not remember ever having seen them. You will not remember your parents and their deaths. We would find you a place where you can start your life afresh. You will have a normal, beautiful life, hopefully._

 

_But if this letter finds its way to you, that means the spell is broken. It means your abilities are back. And I beg you, if that happens, know that you are in grave danger. Please, find this man._

 

You look at the photograph that had slipped from inside it. It is of a bearded man in a leather jacket. You wonder why he seems familiar as you turn back to the letter.

 

_Find John Winchester. He will know what to do. He is the only one I trust._

 

_Praying for your safety,_

_Jim Murphy._

 

You slowly fold the letter neatly in half. Wilma's breathing gets more shallow, and her lips quiver.

 

"Wilma." You whisper to her. You support the back of her neck with your hand, trying to lift her up. She coughs, holding a hand up to stop you.

 

"Please, leave me here. I have lived for far too long. Let me have my peace now."

  
  
"You can't die." You search her face, feeling your heart fall to depths within you.

 

" I will. It's just a matter of time. It took the last of my strength to cast that spell. Now I'm all spent." She smiles and clasps your hand in hers. "There's nothing you can do. So don’t worry."

 

You see the light beginning to fade in her eyes and feel her fingers starting to get colder.

  
  
"Go back to your hunter friends. They'll keep you safe." She says. "Jim wanted you to find John Winchester, but you already found his sons. Destiny sure has a way."

 

"Wilma, can I ask you something?" You say, swallowing an uncomfortable lump in your throat.

 

"Anything." She squeezes your hand.

 

"Please tell me the truth." You say.

 

"I promise." She says, her voice beginning to get hoarse.

  
  
"Am I going to put them in danger if I go back?"

 

"Oh. Well. You shouldn't worry about their safety. They are both capable hunters. John raised them well. I'm sure they'll do fine." Her eyes wander from your face.

 

"The truth, Wilma."

 

"Yes", she sighs. "Yes, it’s going to be a lot more dangerous for them. They are already walking the line between life and death, with so many demons and hunters on their trail. Your presence will…"

 

"Harm them." You complete.

 

"No. Think about yourself, child. You will have a better chance of survival if--"

 

"Why does my survival  matter?" You ask, feeling your eyes sting.

 

"I'm just one of the billions. My life or death isn't going to affect anyone. I have no family, no friends." The faces of the brothers rise up in your mind, but you push it away.

 

"I'm tired of hiding behind their backs. I'm tired of putting people in danger."

 

"Do what you want, then." She closes her eyes. "Try to stay alive. You are not the judge of your importance, remember that."

 

"Goodbye, then, Wilma."

 

She nods, and you place her head gently on the floor.

  
  
You pause only to drag the limp bodies of Gordon and Kubrick into the empty room and lock the door before running up the stairs.

 

You have a lot of things to do.


	36. A Meeting of Chance

The skin right below your shoulder throbs as if you have had a bad sunburn. You think of the needles and the time you spent gritting your teeth.

 

The process was painful; the result better be worth it.

 

Your foot presses down on the gas pedal and the El Camino accelerates, purring gently.

 

A small backpack lies on the seat next to you, filled with all the money you could find at Gordon's place. Some in tiny crumpled bills, some in crisp bills, a couple of credit cards. A pistol rests next to the backpack. There is an arsenal in the trunk-- most of the weapons suited for hunting vampires-- but useful all the same.

 

You know that keeping the car long would be a mistake. It wouldn't take him long to track you down. You have to get out of town, get as far away as possible before he came looking for you. And then you would ditch the car.

 

But first…

 

You pull the car to a stop near a payphone.

* * *

 

Dean closes his eyes, feeling the water flow over his face, taking away the dirt and grime of the day. It had been a hard day. Exhausting to his body, exhausting to the mind.

 

His limbs had been aching to do something, but he was left with nothing to do. No leads. No idea where to look for you.

 

He hates the way it makes him feel, and he hates you for making him feel it.

 

He had known the moment he had laid eyes on you that you were trouble.

 

He turns off the shower, wiping his face and torso with a towel. He ties it around his waist, walking over to the bed where his phone lies.

 

Sam is out, still looking for clues. He turns it on, hoping to see something from Sam. But instead, he finds a voice message from an unknown number.

 

_Dean, it's me._

 

He recognises your voice.

 

_I know you must be looking for me. I'm sorry I caused you so much trouble. I was taken-- by two hunters, Gordon and Kubrick. You might know them._

 

He sits down on the bed, his grip tightening on the phone and his jaw clenching.

 

_But I'm okay now. I escaped. But I'm not coming back._

 

There is a pause, and the sound of his heart beating fills the silence.

 

_I know it sounds ungrateful after all that you have done for me… And you have done so much for me. You took me in, kept me safe, taught me things…_

 

He hears the faint tremor in your voice.

 

_I can't tell you how thankful I am. You guys were great. Really great._

 

Your voice cracks over the phone, and he feels like throwing the phone at the wall. But he keeps listening.

 

_Over the last few hours, I have learnt a lot about myself. And from what I know, it will be better for you if we never see each other again. I'm sorry._

 

_So… Goodbye. Dean._

 

Sam opens the door to the motel room to be greeted by something small and black whizzing past his head and crashing against the wall.

* * *

 

You head back to the car, thinking of him. How he would react when he got your message. He might start swearing and breaking things like he always does when he is angry. Or he might not care at all. He might just give up and go on with his life, looking for the next monster to hunt.

 

 _That's exactly what I want to happen,_ you try to tell yourself. But the thought that he might not care leaves a hollow ache in your stomach.

 

You jump in alarm as something attaches itself to your leg, clinging to your jeans.

 

"Mommy!"

 

The girl smiles at you, but her face soon falls as she realises her mistake. She lets go.

 

"Hi, what's your name?" You ask her in your gentlest voice.

 

"River." She says. You chuckle, looking at the golden curls that play about her face.

 

"That's a beautiful name, River. Just like you." She smiles shyly, running towards another woman. She seems to be dressed in the same kind of clothes as you.

 

 _That must be her mother._ You think.

 

"I see you've met my daughter", she says, passing a Starbucks cup from her left hand to the right.

 

"Yeah. She seemed to think I was you for a second."

 

She seems nice, polite-- a typical suburban mom. The girl clings to her arm, her blonde locks blowing around wildly as she moves. The mother looks on lovingly at her before turning to you, a dazzling smile on her face.

 

But something about her turns your stomach. Something makes your skin crawl as she draws near, hand extended.

 

"Olive Wilson."

 

You hesitate for a moment, confused by the strong sense of foreboding. But you extend your hand anyway, and she meets it in a warm handshake.

 

But as your skin touches hers, you are overcome by revulsion. As if you just touched something slimy and nauseating. You stare at her fingers.

 

They are normal. Human.

 

Until it starts changing right before your eyes.

 

Her skin begins peeling back from the tips of her fingers revealing the flesh. Her nails grow long and twisted and turn yellow. Your eyes follow the transformation from her fingers to her hand to her arm and then to the rest of her body. You look up to her face where the brilliant grey eyes are now replaced by black globes set on a bloody face. Her hair turns stringy, damply sticking to the back of her scalp.

 

But her mouth still seems to be set in a smile.

 

 _She doesn't know I can see her,_ you think.

 

She looks at you expectantly and you realise you haven't given her your name.

 

"Rose Tyler." You blurt out, regretting it the moment the words leave your mouth. She doesn’t seem to notice.

 

"Nice to meet you, Rose."

 

You compose your expression and smile back at her. It takes all your effort not to gag when the woman stoops to give the girl a hug. Her face rubs against the exposed flesh of the demon's cheek and you suppress a shudder.

 

"Well. I'd love to chat about our similar clothing tastes, but I gotta run." She points with her thumb in the direction of the road. "Say bye to Rose, River." She tells the girl.

 

She waves you goodbye, smiling so brightly her eyes light up. A shiver runs down your spine as you watch her getting into the car with the demon.

 

The car pulls away, heading north.

 

You stare at the El Camino. You are supposed to be heading the opposite direction. But the image the golden-haired girl refuses to leave your head.

 

You sigh as you head to the car, waiting for the other to disappear beyond the horizon before pulling a U-turn, heading north.


	37. Liberosis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At long last... here's the next chapter.

She peers out from between the curtains into the shadows, into the dark space that lies beyond the crisscrossing beams of light from the streetlamps. She watches as you slowly open the trunk of the car, looking at the weapons inside.

 

It's obvious that you are new to this. It's written everywhere-- in the frown that appears on your brows as you try to pick a weapon, in the way you shift your weight from foot to foot as you stand there, sending nervous glances in the direction of the house every now and then.

 

She looks through the glass that separates you from her and smirks.

 

She hasn't had real fun in a while. Tonight might be her chance.

 

She lets the curtains close, turning away, when the girl-- River-- appears before her. Clutching her teddy bear to her chest as she chews her lip, watching her through narrowed eyes.

 

The demon kneels before the child, smiles, and touches her arm. She recoils.

 

 _The girl is too perceptive for her age_ , she thinks. _Sometimes, it is almost as if she knows everything._

 

"Isn't it time for you to sleep, sweetie?" She says and lightly touches her nose, the same way she knows the girl's mother used to before she chose her to be her new meatsuit.

 

The frown on the girl's face disappears as she gives her a wide smile, showing the gap where her front tooth had fallen off last week.

 

She puts on her best loving expression as she takes her hand, leading her up the stairs. In her mind, she counts the days to when she can finally get rid of the pest.

 

_Four days, at the most. Not long._

 

"Let's get you to bed. Mommy's got some work to do tonight." She pats her head and she nods.

 

She wonders what you might be doing outside. She feels a thrill going through her as she imagines what she would do to you.

* * *

 

The sawed-off shotgun, even loaded with salt rounds, feels lighter in your hands than you expected. You turn it over in your hands, feeling the cold metal warm slightly under your fingers. You slip the rosary into your pocket, grab Pastor Jim's journal from the car and sling the backpack over your shoulder.

 

The lights turn off, plunging the whole place into darkness. The rhythm of your heartbeat grows faster as you stare at the house-- so deceptively calm and peaceful. The wind blows and you feel the goosebumps rise on your arms. You tighten your grip on the gun, take a deep breath and walk purposefully towards the house.

* * *

Sam rests his chin on his palms, staring out at the black night that has descended around the car. His thoughts alternate between you and his brother. One moment he worries for you, for your safety, and the very next he thinks about how his brother has been on edge ever since you disappeared without a trace at the church.

 

Dean shifts on the front seat of the car.

 

"Why are we even looking for her? She doesn't want to be found!" He slams his hands on the steering wheel.

 

Sam sits quietly beside him, knowing that saying something would only make his brother even more angry.

 

"I can't figure her out, Sam. I can't. She said she didn't have a normal life anymore. She said she wanted to be a hunter. And now she runs away? _After_ being kidnapped by two psychos?"

 

Sam silently stares at his fingernails for a few seconds before turning to his brother.

 

"Maybe she wants that normal life back, Dean. Maybe now that she knows the danger of being a hunter, she doesn't want to be one, anymore."

 

Dean laughs. A mirthless, bitter sound that echoes around the car.

 

"Oh, you didn't hear what she said. She said she didn't want to put us in--"

 

He goes silent, freezing with his mouth half-open.

 

"Put us in what, Dean?" Sam prompts.

 

"She said she didn't want to put _us_ in danger", he says, his fingers tightening on the wheel. "You know what that means, Sammy?"

 

"What does that mean?" He turns to his brother.  
 

"It means she's in danger, blockhead."

 

He presses his foot down on the gas pedal hard, and the Impala accelerates so fast Sam hits his head against the side window.

 

"Umm… Where exactly are we going, Dean?" He asks, rubbing his head.

 

"To find Gordon", Dean replies, his face darkening.

* * *

You hang on the edge of the branch, trying to swing your legs over into the balcony. You let go and land with a soft thud, catching your balance so you don't tumble backwards to a storey-high fall.

 

You try the knob, and the door opens with a soft click. The bed on the other end of the room holds the form of a sleeping girl. You see her brown curls spilling out onto the pillow and the half-smile on her face as you tiptoe out, into the corridor.

 

You stand on top of the stairs leading to the ground floor, listening for any sound that might tell you something.

 

You hear nothing but the sound of your own heart beating, and the steady ticking of a clock somewhere down the stairs.

 

Then you sense it.

 

That same uneasy feeling comes back crawling up your spine as you place your hand on the railing, the raw edge of fear scraping across your nerves. Some voice starts whispering in the back of your mind, urging you turn and run.

 

_She's down there._

 

You swallow the lump in your throat as you take your hand away from the railing, leaving it wet with the sweat from your palm. You trace your steps back, returning to the corridor where you lay the backpack down.

 

It takes you about ten minutes.

 

You get up from where you knelt on the floor, surveying your work, clenching and unclenching your hands to stop their trembling. Then you turn and make your way down the stairs, the pounding of your heart growing louder and louder with each step you take.

 

Moonlight falls through the slightly parted curtains, forming a sliver of illumination that runs along the centre of the room.

 

Cold sweat trickles down your back, soaking your shirt, making it cling to your body. You grip the gun tighter, raising it to chest level, aiming at the dark corner just behind the line of light where she waits.

 

Finally, a cold, raspy female voice breathes from the shadows.

 

"I was waiting for you, Rose Tyler."

 

The moonlight strikes her figure as she steps out of the shadows, lighting up the angles of her face and streaming down her long hair. She looks beautiful. _Ethereal_. As if she could be nothing but an angel.

 

"That's not your real name, is it?" She tilts her head, looking at you with apparent interest in her pitch black eyes. "Why don't you say anything? Other hunters are different, you know." She takes a step towards you.

 

"They talk and taunt and sneer, trying to lure me into the traps they've set for me." She takes another step towards you and you instinctively step back. "They don't just stand there, waiting for me to rip their hearts out."

 

You cock the shotgun.

 

"Oh, honey. You're even more of an amateur than I thought. You think you can get me with _that_ thing?" She flicks her hand lazily and the gun flies out of your hand, hitting the wall and clattering to the floor.

 

She stops a few feet in front of you, crossing her arms across her chest and scanning you from top to bottom.

 

"You're lucky, you know that? Usually it takes me just seconds to deal with a hunter. But tonight, I'm in the mood for a little fun."

 

She leans forward, and her voice falls to a whisper.

 

"You might be nearing the end of your life, but I'll make sure those last moments are… interesting." Her hair falls over her face, obscuring it.

 

As she steps close, you feel nausea rising within you. Her beautiful features start to distort and change. Her hair turns into a stringy mass sticking to her pale scalp. Her skin grows pale, almost translucent, blue veins protruding from beneath it. Her shoulders droop, her bones become more pronounced. Her nails turn into claws. Her lips entirely disappear, leaving just a long, thin slit where her mouth was.

 

"Why are you making that face?" She asks. Her stench now starts getting stronger. She smells like rotten bodies, and you fight the urge to gag.

 

You force yourself to look into the hideous face of the creature standing before you.

 

"Because I can see you", you spit out.

 

Her eyes widen in shock.

 

" _See_ me", she echoes, her eyes glittering. "So you're the one they're all talking about. The one with the Sight. There's a bounty on your head, you know that?" She claps her hands together.

 

She stares at you for what seems like an eternity, her eyes boring into yours. She shakes her head.

 

"Sorry, sweetheart. I promised fun, but it looks like I'll have to kill you right now", she says. "I shouldn't take any risks with such a prize as you. Your death is going to take me _places_."

 

She reaches out her hand as if to fling you across the room like she did the gun. You squeeze your eyes shut.

 

Nothing happens.

 

When you open your eyes, she stands with her mouth open, staring at you, bewildered.

 

"How…" Her voice falters.

 

"Devil's trap", you declare, smiling. "Wasn't sure it would work. I drew it on the floor of the upstairs corridor before I came down. You must be right below it now."

 

You take the journal out of your backpack.

 

"Well, _now_ we know it works."

 

You flip open the book to find the exorcism ritual.

 

"Shall we?"

 

Her eyes widen in fear, the smug smirk disappearing from her face and her lips parting as if to plead.

 

 _This is what it's like to be a hunter,_ you think. _The adrenaline rush. The fear that comes before the thrill. The satisfaction of watching your prey cower before you when you have it cornered._

 

"Go back to hell, where you belong, demon", you say.

 

A vase falls to the ground and shatters, it's broken pieces thrown everywhere. A man's startled voice rings out. The demon whips her head around, gazing into the dark corner, her eyes glinting.

 

"How long you been listening, hon?"

 

A man emerges from the shadows. His movements are slow and cautious, and his eyes dilate in fear and disgust as they land on the demon.

 

_The husband._

 

"Long enough to know you're not my wife", he says, his eyes fixed on her. He tries to sound brave, but the tremor in his voice and the way he runs his hand over the back of his neck betray his fear.

 

"What _are_ you?"

 

In reply, she looks at him and allows her eyes to go completely black. He gasps.

 

"I'm a demon", she says nonchalantly. "Your wife is still in here, trapped inside this body. It’s just that _I'm_ in the driver's seat right now. I borrowed her body for a while."

 

"And _you,_ who are you?" He turns to you.

 

"I'm a hunter. I… hunt creatures like these." You tilt your head at the demon. "I'll have to exorcise the demon. Your wife will be fine once the demon leaves her body."

 

"Not so fast, hunter." Her voice rings out, sounding firm and resolute. She bends, picking up a long and sharp piece of the broken vase. 

 

"You think I'll go without a fight?" She challenges. "You try to exorcise me, and the woman dies."

 

"You aren't the one holding the bargaining chip, _demon_ ", you say. "You're going back to  hell."

 

She turns to the husband, her eyes gleaming in the dark.

 

"Your wife is still in here, trapped. Poor thing. I wonder how she'll feel when I stab her." She holds the piece of broken vase in both her hands, tip pointed inwards and raises it to her head. "You love your wife, don't you? She loves you too. Now say goodbye."

 

She brings it down.

 

"No!" He screams, launching himself towards her. It takes all of your strength to keep him from getting into the devil's trap. You push him and he stumbles back, his eyes wide and his face drained of blood.

 

Her hands stop just as the tip grazes her body.

 

"Do you want your wife to live? Then go upstairs, find the drawing on the floor of the corridor, and break the circle."

 

He stares at her blankly, then nods, rushing to the stairs.

 

You chase behind him as he sprints up the stairs and into the corridor, the demon's laughter ringing out behind you. He finds the devil's trap, falling to his knees beside it.

 

"Please don't so it. She is a demon. There's no telling what she'd do one you free her", you plead. His hand inches towards the devil's trap, towards the circle you drew in chalk. "Please, don't do it."

 

"I'm sorry." He swipes his hand over the drawing, breaking the line. What feels like a sudden gust of wind knocks you across the room. Your feel pain shoot across your shoulder as your body hits the wall before falling to the ground.

 

She stands on top of the stairs, her hand outstretched. Her eyes land on the man and her eyes light up with a murderous glint.

 

He cowers before her, realising just how powerful the demon is.

 

"I could snap your neck right now." She strides over to him. "But you know what? _This_ will be much  more fun."

 

She flicks her hand a knife appears in it. She smirks at him and then plunges it into her own stomach.

 

"That barely stung."

 

A red stain appears where the handle protrudes from her stomach, spreading fast. He watches, helpless, as her blood trickles down the length of the hand and falls to the floor in large red drops.

 

"You get to live and remember this for the rest of your life. Now get out of my sight."

 

He stays stunned on the ground for a few seconds, unable to move. Then he scampers off downstairs.

 

"Now let's take care of _you_."

 

Her eyes now rest on you as you lean on the wall for support, trying to get up. She flicks her hand again, and you feel the wind getting knocked out of your lungs. You gasp in pain as you fall face-down on the floor.

 

Your arms shake as you try to push yourself up and you hear her cruel laugh ringing out as she stands over you, watching you struggle.

 

A whimper draws your attention. River stands at the threshold of her door, eyes wide and staring at the knife sticking out of her mother's body.

 

"River! Get away!" You shout as the demon turns to her.

 

She stares at you, startled, her locks in wild disarray and fear in her eyes.

 

"Run!" You urge her again.

 

She screams as the demon grabs her by the hair, pulling the girl to her.

 

"Daddy!" She cries in pain, trying to beat her hands off. You lift yourself off the floor, launching yourself towards the demon, but you get knocked back into the corner.

 

River screams again.

 

"Get away from her!" A voice shouts.

 

You lift your head to see the man standing on the stairs, your shotgun pointed at the demon.

 

"Get away from her, or I swear I will--"

 

"Shoot! Just shoot!" You yell at him.

 

A spray of salt rounds hit her and she screams as she falls backwards, letting go of the girl. Her father rushes to her side, scooping her up in her arms. She sobs into his shoulder.

 

He throws the gun to you and you catch it as he makes his way down the stairs, carrying the girl. You stay a few steps behind him, walking backwards with your gun ready.

 

"Get into the kitchen, lock it, and line the doors and windows with salt!" You shout at him.

 

He looks at you, confused for a second. But then his face clears, and he nods.

 

You keep your eyes on the demon as she raises herself, her eyes glaring at you, her teeth bared in a snarl.

 

You fire the gun again at her and run as fast as you can as the sound of her scream follows close behind. The front door opens as you turn the knob. You run blindly, breathing hard, feeling her presence right behind you as you make your way around the house until you reach the pool.

 

You stand on the edge and turn to face her. She comes to a stop in front of you, her features twisting into a smile that borders on a grimace.

 

"I underestimated you… you little pest", she reaches out her hand, grabbing you by the front of your shirt. The shotgun flies out of your hand.

 

She places a hand above your heart.

 

Pain bloom inside your ribs. It starts as a dull ache and then intensifies until you feel your lungs burn and your knees begin to give way. Sweat covers your face and trickles down the back of your neck. You gather all of your strength as you reach out with your hand. Your arms wrap around her body.

 

Then you take a step back, letting yourself fall into the pool. You hold onto her with all your strength as she falls with you.

 

She thrashes and struggles against your grip as you hold her underwater. Her fingers claw at your arms and you see deep scratches form on your skin, but you hold her down.

 

_Holy water, bitch._

 

As the fight begins to drain out of her, you begin the incantation.

 

As the thick black smoke disappears into the ground, you haul yourself over the edge of the pool. Her body floats face down on the water, blood seeping from the wound on her stomach turning it red.

 

You raise yourself up on your shaky legs, retrieving the gun from the floor. You enter the house to find your backpack flung on the floor and pick it up, slinging it over your shoulder.

 

A door opens. You turn to find the man holding his daughter, her head buried in his shoulder.

 

"You're safe now", you say to them as you turn to go.

 

"My wife. Did she make it?" He asks.

 

"No", you say, remembering the lifeless body floating in the water. "I'm sorry."

 

You watch him clutch his daughter tighter to himself, a tear forming in the corner of his eye. A sob breaks from the girl's body as she hugs her father. Something starts weighing down on your chest, constricting your lungs. You wish you could care less. You wish the image of the broken man with his daughter in his arms didn't cut you so deep. You wish you could say something, anything, to ease their pain.

 

You have no words of comfort to offer them. 

 

So you leave them like that, walking out into the darkness and into the car. As you speed through the road, the dead silence of the night surrounding you, you feel empty. Hollow.

 

"I need a drink", you tell yourself.


	38. Sparks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There be kissing. Or the beginning of a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter.   
> I can see that you guys are getting a little impatient for romance. In my defence, I had planned to introduce it fairly early on in the fic, but as I wrote the chapters, the story went in a completely different direction than I had planned. Anyway, I had already outlined this chapter when I read the comments, so I know for sure I'm doing the right thing now. It's a meeting of minds, folks.  
> Go on, read it, and let me know what you think. Love y'all and your enthusiasm!

The smell of liquor, carried by the warm air inside hits you as you open the door. The soft golden glow of the bar spills out into the street as you step inside, listening to the chatter of the crowd and the clink of bottles.

 

Loud conversations turn into hushed whispers and muffled laughter as you make your way through the maze of chairs and tables. The eyes you meet leer at you, dragging over your body like hooks. An uneasy feeling comes crawling up your spine as you walk past them all towards the counter.

 

You wonder if it was all a mistake. All those stories about the women who were drugged and dragged into alleys or into cars with tinted windows, only to wake up the next morning with no memory of the night--

 

You shake your head, soft laughter bubbling up from inside you.

 

_I took on a demon tonight, all on my own. Hell, I can handle a man or two._

 

You ignore the stares and the not so hushed comments as you seat yourself on a lonely stool at the less packed end of the bar, letting your eyes wander over the labels of the bottles lining the shelves.

 

A wall moves into your field of vision.

 

"What can I get you?" A voice booms from above you, deep and rumbling like thunder.

 

Your eyes land on the thick muscled arms that rest on the counter before you. They are covered in tattoos. Angel wings, demon tails, skulls, swords and pierced hearts all merge together in an impressive mural that begins on top of his wrists and spreads across his arms to disappear under the sleeve of a black T-shirt.

 

"You're right, it’s a work of art", the voice booms again, this time with a pleasant undertone to it. "I'm Nate."

 

He winks at you and you register soft blue eyes and a warm smile that crinkles the corners of his lips, completely contrasting everything else about him, including the piercing on his left ear.

 

"I need to get drunk", you whisper, more to yourself than to him, your mind going back to the hunt.

 

The stories always tell you about the thrill, the adrenaline rush that you get when you corner your enemy. The elation that courses through your veins when you see your prey walking into your trap. That moment of clarity that tells you that yes, you _are_ going to win. They don’t tell you about the exhaustion that follows, about the doubt that comes gnawing at you, that you weren't good enough. The guilt of letting someone down.

 

"Tough breakup, huh?" His voice breaks through your reverie. His brows furrow in concern as you look up at him.

 

"How did you know?" You feign surprise, deciding to play along.

 

"I'm a bartender, sweetheart. I see people like you all the time." He leans forward. "It's not my business but… " He trails off as if something else has caught his interest.

 

You glance over your shoulder to see a rather attractive looking man make his way towards the bar. Nate gives a low whistle.

 

"Oh, God. Please don’t let him be straight", he mutters under his breath as the man approaches, running his hand through his blond hair.

 

You watch, an amused smile on your face as your new bartender friend blatantly flirts with the newcomer, ignoring you completely.

 

A few minutes later when the customer leaves, he turns his attention back to you.

 

"So… was he?" You raise an eyebrow.

 

"What?"

 

"Straight."

 

He whips out a piece of paper, a number written on it in large slanting digits.

 

"He's _bi_. But I'll take it." He smiles at you. "Now, to healing that broken heart. Shall we?" He sweeps his hand in a grand gesture towards the bottles.

* * *

 

"Dean." Sam points out through the window at the red El Camino parked on the side of the road.

 

"Gordon's car", Dean says, pulling to a stop in front of the bar. "She's here."

 

Dean surveys the scene, looking at the neon signs of the bar and the motel opposite.

 

"You go check out the motel. I'll take the bar", he says, slamming the door behind him.

 

He spots you easily enough at the bar, sipping solemnly from your glass. A mixture of relief and exasperation rises in him as he stands there, gazing at your form through the crowd. He picks up his phone to call Sam, then thinks better of it as he drops it back in his pocket. There were some things he wanted to discuss with you first.

 

A large warm hand comes to rest on your shoulder. You place your drink on the counter, turning to look into green eyes and a furrowed brow.

 

"Of all the bars in all the world, Dean Winchester", you chirp, "You walk into mine."

 

His lips tighten in response.

 

"How'd you find me?" You ask again.

 

His eyes drift over your glossy eyes and flushed cheeks to land on the glass of amber liquid in your hand. He lets his shoulders drop in a defeated sigh.

 

"You're drunk", he states.

 

"No, I'm not", you pout, turning away from him.

 

"How many drinks have you had?" He points at the glass in your hand, resting his elbow on the counter.

 

You wrinkle your brow, trying to remember, soon realizing that you can't count beyond three.

 

"What's after three?" You ask him, chewing your lower lip.

 

"Like I said, you're drunk", he repeats.

 

"Nope. I'm just a little tipsy." You raise the glass to your lips to take another sip.

 

He watches as your eyes close briefly as if relishing the taste.

 

"Come on, we're going home", he says.

 

"I'm not going anywhere." You shake your head vigorously.

 

"Just shut up, and come with me." He grabs hold of your arm. Your skin feels cold under his fingers.

 

"Whoa, there, tough guy", Nate appears, laying a hand on his shoulder. You see Dean wince as the grip tightens. "I don’t think the lady wants to go with you."

 

"You don’t understand", Dean begins, but Nate interrupts.

 

"What don’t I understand? That you here are trying to get a drunk, vulnerable girl to leave with you?" His voice assumes a threatening note.

 

You giggle and the men turn to stare at you.

 

"S'okay, Nate. He's just a little overprotective." You wave your hand dismissively as you take a long swig out of the glass.

 

"Overprotective? What do you know about overprotective?" Dean snaps.

 

"That your boyfriend?" Nate tilts his head towards Dean, sending you a glance.

 

"No", you say, just as he growls a "Yes".

 

Nate looks from you to him, and then back to you, and raises an eyebrow.

 

"He's my ex", you wave your hand in the air. "We broke up, remember?" You turn to Dean, putting accusation in your tone. You turn your gaze to your drink, enjoying the sight of him squirming out of the corner of your eye.

 

"Oh. So you are the douchebag who dumped her." Nate removes his hand from his shoulder, crossing his arms over his chest.  "I'll tell you what, buddy. If you're trying to get back together with her, you have to apologize first."

 

Dean rubs his shoulder absently.

 

"Well?" Nate leans forward.

 

Dean sends you a glare that you pretend to not see. He clears his throat, shifting from foot to foot before facing you.

 

"Babe, I'm sorry I broke up with you. I'm sorry I said those things. I didn’t mean them." He takes a deep breath. "So, will you just come home?"

 

He doesn’t even wait for your reply, but practically drags you by the hand, barely giving you time to abandon your unfinished drink on the counter. As he pulls you through the crowd, he feels the chill in your fingers.

 

"You're freezing", he says in a gruff tone, shrugging out of his leather jacket before draping it over your shoulders.

 

"Aww…" Nate watches as you make your way outside, clinging to his arm.

* * *

 

He stops only when you reach a dark corner of the street. You can make out the faint outline of the Impala a few feet away, near the car you drove.

 

Dean drops your hand, turning to face you. He stares at you for a whole minute, letting you feel his anger, his ire. The silence burns you like words never could.

 

"What is wrong with you?" He finally snaps, his eyes flashing.

 

"What?" You wrap your hands around yourself, shivering as a cold wind blows.

 

"Running away like that! You aren't half a hunter, you know that? You could've gotten yourself killed!"

 

You hold your hand up, stopping him.

 

"There was a good reason why I decided to stay away from you." You wrack your brain, trying to remember what that reason was, coming up with nothing. It feels like your head is wrapped in a warm fuzzy cloud.

 

"And I'm not dead yet. I exorcised a demon, all on my on. So I would say I'm entitled to be called a _full_ hunter now."

 

"You did what?" His voice drops low, making you shiver.

 

"Do you realize what could have happened? You could have had your guts ripped out. Or worse, possessed. It would be fun to have something else walking around wearing your body." He steps closer, his face now inches from yours. You stare at his lips, then shake your head.

 

"Can you just give me some credit? When I was with you all I did was get into trouble and wait for you guys to come rescue me. I didn’t even know how to shoot!" You take a step back, putting distance between you and him. "Now I've taken care of two hunters _and_ a demon. Why are you so angry about that?"

 

"'Cause you could've died!"

 

"Oh, that again." You stomp your feet in an alcohol-fueled rage. "You know what, Dean Winchester, I'm not planning to die a _virgin_ , so--"

 

You clap your hands over your mouth, realizing too late what you were saying.

 

Dean coughs. You bury your hands inside your pockets, blowing a strand of hair from your face. You stare at the ground for a few seconds before glowering up at him in defiance.

 

"You're a…" Dean begins and coughs again. "Virgin."

 

You stare past him into the darkness.

 

"You're serious? You've never gotten laid?" He tilts his head to the side, regarding you as if you were some kind of alien spawn. It makes you want to pluck his eyes out, gorgeous as they are.

 

You try to ignore the question, but he keeps his silence, looking expectantly at you.

 

"No", you finally blurt out. "And stop staring at me." Your voice rises to a shriek.

 

He tries to maintain a straight face, but his shoulders soon start shaking. He bends over, clutching his stomach with his hand.

 

"What?"

 

He bursts out laughing.

 

"I should've known. With the way you blush all the time."

 

In reply, you turn a deep crimson.

 

"You're doing that now", he points at your face. "Oh, this is too funny." He says, breathless, his laughter now sounding more like hiccups.

 

"Shut up!" You yell. At this point, you are ready to do anything to stop him. Anything at all.

 

"Oh, wow. I never thought…"

 

He never gets to finish.

 

You grab him by the collar of his shirt, using every ounce of your strength to pull him towards you. You rise up on your toes, waiting for his head to lower.

 

You only have time to register the mixture of confusion and surprise on his eyes before you close yours, and press your lips to his. Hard. Insistent.

 

His lips are softer than you expect. Chapped, but soft. He smells like old leather and whisky. You hold your breath, half-hoping, half-fearing that he would return the kiss. You feel the effects of the alcohol wear away, but it doesn't bring clarity. Another kind of intoxication, a stronger kind, replaces it.

 

Seconds run into each other as your pulse goes erratic, your breathing hitches in your throat in a mixture of fear and hope.

 

You wait.

 

But he doesn't kiss you back. His lips remain shut and unyielding. His hands stay stiff and rigid at his sides, frozen in shock.

 

You wait for a moment too long.

 

You pull away from him, an apology at the tip of your tongue, your cheeks burning from the embarrassment and your eyes stinging when his arms snake around you.

 

He looks down at you, his eyes dark and his lips slightly parted as he pulls you to him with so much force you collide against his chest. His left-hand travels to your waist and the right tangles itself in your hair, angling your face towards his as his lips capture yours with a soft sigh.


	39. Smoulder

He sighs as he pulls away from you, his breath blowing across your lips, the warmth sending tingles through your spine. Your fingers are still curled around the fabric of his shirt, holding him close as if you would drown if you ever let go. You gaze into his stormy eyes that swirl with some emotion you can’t quite decipher. He runs the pad of his thumb over your lips, holding your gaze as if saying something wordlessly.

 

He drops his gaze to the ground as he steps away from you.

 

"I'll call Sam. We should get going." Dean walks over to the Impala, searching his pocket for his phone.

 

"Dean", you call from behind.

 

He stops, sending a questioning glance your way.

 

"I can't come with you."

 

He freezes, hand in mid-air.

 

"What did you say?" He says, his voice dangerously low.

 

You bite your lip, keeping your silence.

 

Nothing had really changed.

 

They would still be in danger if you went with them and the kiss... well the kiss didn't really change anything.

 

"Can't or won't?" He asks, taking a step towards you.

 

"I can't, Dean. I wish I could tell you why. I really do." You say, your voice almost failing you. "After all that you've done for me, I can't do this to you. You should just go on without me. I'll be fine."

 

"Really?" He asks, his voice sounding choked. "Really, after we drove around all town looking for you? After we went to all this trouble to find you? You can't come with us?"

 

"I'm sorry, Dean. I really am." You say, hoping it was enough.

 

"Well don't be", he says, turning away, hiding the hurt in his eyes. He doesn't spare another glance in your direction as he gets in the car. Sam chooses that moment to appear, walking over to you with the hint of a smile on his face.

 

"Get in the car, Sam. We're leaving", Dean says gruffly to him.

 

Sam sends a confused glance your way before folding his tall frame into the car. The Impala hums to life before pulling out into the road. His eyes widen in alarm as he realises that you're not getting in.

 

You watch the taillights disappear into the gloom of the night, turning away to feel your breath catch in your throat as you realise Dean's jacket is still around your shoulders. 

 

Someone steps into your way.

 

"Nate?" You say, recognising the tall broad frame decorated with tattoos.

 

"Hey. My shift just got over. Why are you still here? Where's the boyfriend?"

 

"He... Um..." You stumble over your words, thinking of something to say.

 

"He left you here, didn't he? Well, that's a shame. I would've liked getting my hands on the Winchester too", he flashes you a grin, stepping close. Too close. "I guess I'll have to be satisfied with just the Seer then."

 

You stumble backwards in confusion.  _The Winchesters?_ _Seer?_

 

Your back hits something solid and you turn around to see the man from the bar-- the one Nate was flirting with-- blocking your path.

 

"Hiya, sweetheart", he says. His eyes flash black.

* * *

 

"Dean, stop." Sam looks at his brother's stony face.

 

In reply, Dean presses his foot harder on the pedal. The Impala roars as it cuts through the night air, taking them farther and farther away from you.

 

"Stop the car, man. What the hell are you doing?" Sam throws his hands up in a helpless gesture.

 

Dean presses his lips together, keeping his eyes on the road as the car settles into a steady pace.

 

"Dean."

 

Dean sighs, slowing the car to a stop on the roadside. He turns off the engine, resting his hands on the steering wheel before covering his face with them and letting out another weary sigh.

 

"She said she couldn’t come with us."

 

"Why?"

 

"No idea. She drives me crazy, that woman. I mean, I don’t know what's on her mind." He passes a hand over his eyes. "She said she wanted to stick with us, remember? And now she doesn't want to do anything with me-- us."

 

"We can’t just leave her there", Sam says.

 

"What was I supposed to do? Drag her with us, kicking and screaming? She's a grown up woman, Sam. She can make her own choices. If she doesn’t want to come with us, she can stay where she wants. End of story."

 

Sam rolls his eyes.

 

"What?" Dean snaps.

 

Sam leans back in his seat, studying his brother's face.

 

"When I came out of the motel, I saw you two."

 

"Yeah?" Dean says nonchalantly.

 

"You were all over each other. I thought…" He trails off, tilting his head. "What happened?"

 

"Nothing", Dean says with an air of finality.

 

"I'm here, if you wanna talk about it."

 

"Yeah, Sammy, I want to talk about it. Come here. Let me cry on your shoulder."

 

Sam gives a short laugh, turning away.

 

"You always do this. Bottling up everything, letting it all eat you from the inside…"

 

Dean stays silent.

 

"I know you're mad. I get it. But right now she needs us. Remember that message she left you? She said she didn’t want to put us in danger, right?"

 

"Right."

 

"So that means she's in danger right now. And we left her in the middle of the road, Dean. If something happens to her…"

 

"I'll never forgive myself", Dean says in a whisper.

 

"Let's go back, then", Sam replies.

* * *

 "Don't worry, I'll make this quick", Nate says, turning a knife over in his hand.

 

You struggle, nails digging into your arm as the other demon holds you still with one arm around your waist and the other around your neck. Your heart keeps beating away at a frantic pace and sweat begins to trickle down the side of your face. The demon behind you laughs at your fear, the raspy sound echoing around in your skull.

 

Nate's features begin to morph into his demonic form. You close your eyes, not wanting it to be the last thing you saw.

 

Then you hear it.

 

The unmistakeable hum of the Impala.

 

Your eyes fly open, and you register his startled expression as you stomp down hard. In a split second, you become free, and the knife flies from the demon's hand as you shove him as hard as you can. You hear car doors open and footsteps running your way.

 

Nate springs to his feet, grabbing hold of your wrist as you turn to run. He yanks hard, making you stumble into him. Dean's shotgun clatters to the floor as the other demon throws himself at him. He falls to the ground, pinned by the demon on top of him. Your eyes widen as you watch two more demons emerge from the shadows behind Sam.

 

"Sam, watch ou--" Your scream gets cut off as you are thrown across the road. You hit the asphalt hard, pain shooting across your left shoulder.

 

You cradle your injured arm with the other, wincing as you crawl your way to the gun that lies a few feet away from you. Out of the corner of your eyes, you register Nate coming closer.

 

Just a few more inches.

 

Your fingers close around the shotgun just as his shadow falls over you. You look up into his face, which now looks half-decayed, maggots crawling out of his flesh. He smiles as he steps on your hand, gravel crunching under his boot as he grinds it into your fingers. You bite your lip to keep yourself from crying out.

 

A shot rings out and the pressure on your hand disappears as Nate falls backwards, his scream rending the night air. You see Sam fall as the demons pounce on him. Dean struggles as the demon on top of him places a hand over his heart. You see him squeeze his eyes shut in pain, a dark stain starting to spread on his shirt right above his heart.

 

Your elbows scrape against the ground as you struggle to sit up. Tears spring from your eyes as you level the shotgun, your left shoulder pulsing with pain, the sensation almost making you faint. You blink away the tears as you support the gun between your left hand and your body, placing your right hand near the trigger.

 

Dean groans and the demon cackles.

 

You crane your neck, tilting your head to get a better aim. You pull the trigger.

 

With a scream the demon falls backwards, thick black smoke issuing from its mouth.

 

Black spots appear in your vision as Sam and Dean take on the other demons. They flee, leaving their meatsuits behind, escaping as black clouds of smoke.

 

Nate's eyes flash black as he raises himself up, rage contorting his features as he staggers your way.

 

"Hey, come on", Dean says as he puts an arm around you, lifting you up. "Let's go. Sam, open the door."

 

The car door slams behind you and the Impala roars to life again before speeding down the road, leaving the demon among the bodies, screaming in frustration.

* * *

"This is your room", Dean says, pointing to the door next to the one Sam disappeared into.

 

You nod, carrying your left arm at an awkward angle. He notices your eyes narrow in pain.

 

"You okay?" Concern shows in his eyes as he takes a step towards you.

 

"I'll live", you attempt a smile that falters when Dean touches your arm.

 

"Let me see that shoulder", he says.

 

You sit on the edge of the bed and Dean places his hand on your shoulder, making you wince. He strokes his chin.

 

"You might have to take off the shirt", he says after a long silence. "I need to get a good look at it."

 

You unbutton your shirt just far enough to expose your shoulder.

 

"Yeah. That will do", Dean mutters as he touches the joint. You suck in a breath as he presses his fingers down on either side of the bone.

 

"Does that hurt?" He asks, and you nod in reply.

 

"You dislocated your shoulder", he says. "This will hurt." He looks into your eyes as if asking for permission.

 

You nod, more timidly this time.

 

"Okay. Hold on to me if you have to. On three", he says. He places his hands on your shoulder, gripping tight. Your fingers snake their way around his arm, finding comfort in the warmth of his skin.

 

"One…" he counts, and suddenly jerks his hands. With a pop, your bones come together. You choke on a scream, your fingers tightening painfully around his arm, nails digging into the flesh.

 

"How does it feel?" He asks.

 

You resist the urge to smack him.

 

"Try moving your arm", he says, sitting down on the bed beside you.

 

"It feels okay", you say, rotating your shoulder. "Thanks."

 

"Anytime."

 

The silence stretches uncomfortably between you. Dean links his hands together, staring at the wall.

 

"So, a seer, huh?" His gruff voice finally breaks the silence. "You can see the true forms of demons because of that."

 

"Yeah. And they're not too happy about it, so they'll keep coming until I'm dead."

 

"That's why you stick with us. We'll keep you safe", Dean says. "We always have a better chance when we stick together."

 

"Yeah", you say, relapsing into uncomfortable silence.

 

Dean finally stands up to leave. At the door he stops, his hand on the knob.

 

"Listen, about earlier", he begins. Your heart skips a beat. You feel your throat dry up.

 

"That kiss. That was a mistake. It should never have happened." He opens the door and steps out, staying there for a while. Finally, he turns away.

 

"Goodnight."

 

"Goodnight", you whisper to the closed door and sink to the bed, suddenly feeling like the world was coming down on you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Taking a temporary break from hiatus. I've been studying for my exams which begin next week. For some reason, I couldn't sleep at night. So I stayed up writing and editing this chapter. Hope you enjoyed it. See you all later!


	40. Flames

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good news. Hiatus is over.
> 
> Good news. Smut is here, close as one chapter away. (I know I've been saying this since forever but this time it's true, guys. Cross my heart.)
> 
> And sorry for taking way too long to update. My college life is officially over, so hopefully, I should have more time on my hands from now on.

"Here."

 

Sam presents you with a syringe filled with dark red liquid. You take it hesitantly between your fingers, your brow furrowing in question.

 

"Dead man's blood. Poisonous to vampires", he explains, pulling out a machete out of the trunk of the Impala.  The blade gleams in the midday sun, the sharp edge seeming to cleave light itself.

 

You hesitate.

 

"You'll need it if you _are_ going in", Dean's gruff voice sounds from nearby.

 

You give him a sidelong glance, taking in the way his eyes were fixed on the horizon, his eyebrows frowning lightly. He had argued against letting you tag along on the hunt _. It was too dangerous_ , he had said. It had taken Sam an hour's worth of argument to finally earn a grumpy yes from him. He wasn't happy about it, that was clear.

 

 _Screw him and what makes him happy,_ you think. Dean Winchester was a difficult man to read, sure. But he didn’t have to be kissing you one moment and breaking your heart the next, did he?

 

 _You were the one who started the kiss,_ a voice wakes up in the back of your mind.

 

 _But he was the one who responded,_ you say indignantly back.

 

 _And he was also the one who said it was a mistake,_ the voice announces, seemingly pleased with itself.

 

Lost in thought, it takes a moment for you to register that his gaze has shifted and that his eyes are now locked with yours, a curious expression on his face.

 

You avert your eyes hastily, taking the machete from Sam, trying to turn your thoughts to something more pleasant.

 

 _Vampires_. Yes, bloodsucking monsters seem to be a more pleasant topic for your mind to linger on right now.

* * *

 

The 'nest', as Sam had called it, is an old abandoned warehouse, standing in the midst of tall grass and overgrown weeds. Paint has begun peeling off its walls, gang symbols spray-painted here and there. The windows are blackened. There are two entrances, and near them, you notice the grass has worn to show clear paths going down to the road.

 

"I'll take the east entrance", Sam says. "You two cover the west."

 

With that he tucks the syringes inside his jacket and walks to one of the doors, his machete held high and ready.

 

Dean beckons you with a wave of his hand.

 

"Stay close", he warns. "And if any of those sons of bitches get close, swing with all you got."

 

You nod, heart hammering in your chest as Dean gently nudges the door open.

 

After the brightness of the day, the inside of the warehouse seems impossibly dark. You struggle to keep your balance, stepping with care to avoid making any sound to announce your presence. You follow the faint outline of Dean's body, feeling the reassuring weight of the blade in your hand and the syringes in your pocket.

 

As your eyes adjust, things start to become clear. Hammocks are strung across the place, sagging with the weight of sleeping bodies.

 

Six of them.

 

The place is clean, surprisingly. There are empty buckets arranged in a corner, which you assume were used to collect blood from the victims as they bled out.

 

On the other side of the warehouse, a sliver of light catches your eye. The door opens, and Sam steps inside, giving you a thumbs up. His silent assent to begin the attack.

 

The first vampire wakes up screaming as Dean's blade catches its neck, separating the head cleanly from the body, making blood spurt everywhere. In a few moments, the nest wakes up to mayhem. Bare fangs and hisses greet you everywhere. As Dean swings his machete a second time, another head rolls-- this time landing at your feet.

 

You fight the urge to jump back in disgust. A spray of blood hits your face, the larger drops trickling down your chin, slick against your skin. The dull thunks of metal hitting flesh, the hiss as it slices through bone and sinew, the dull thuds with which the heads hit the floor. The sight, the smell, the feeling-- it is all too much. Your stomach turns as a headless body teeters on its feet before slumping to the ground.

 

You had been worrying about the wrong thing apparently. Before you walked in, you had been thinking with some dread about a vampire sinking its fangs into your flesh. But now, taking in all the blood and gore that surrounds you, you realise that the real challenge would be to keep yourself from hurling.

 

From nowhere, a body hurtles towards you. In shock, you can do nothing but act on instinct. You squeeze your eyes shut as you swing the machete with all your strength. Somewhere in its path of flight, it meets something solid, then slices right through it. Something warm sprays on your face and you open your eyes to see the vampire slump to the ground, headless.

 

It's a blur after that. Blades flashing, heads rolling and blood splashing.

 

But when the last vampire head falls to the floor, you don’t miss how Dean's eyes search for you. You turn away from him, not meeting the concern in his eyes. You don’t need his concern. You don't need his pity. You don't need anything from the man who called you a mistake.

 

* * *

 

The water turns a murky red as it runs from his bloody hands, disappearing into the sink. He takes a look in the mirror, at the bloodshot eyes and the shadows under them.

 

He cups water in his hands, splashing it over his face, feeling its pleasant sting on an open gash. He runs his hand along his jaw, feeling the rough three day stubble.

 

He catches your reflection in the mirror as you walk in the door, not glancing his way as you hand your freshly cleaned blade to Sam.

 

"You did great in there", Sam's voice pipes up. "That was some impressive work for a first vampire hunt."

 

The corners of his lips turn down as he watches your eyes light up.

 

"You think so?"

 

He notices how you relax in his brother's presence. Conversation flows more smoothly-- none of those awkward and tense silences and broken sentences that you seemed to share with him. Your smiles seem to come more easily and more readily when you are with Sam. He watches you punch his brother's arm, laughing at some comment he made, the corners of your eyes crinkling with amusement. The sound of your laughter fills the room, and he feels an inexplicable spike of annoyance go through him.

 

It wasn't fair that you had to lavish his brother with all your attention and pretend like he wasn't even in the room.

 

He envies the way you are with his brother. The easy conversations and the light-hearted banter, the hugs and the playful punches in the arm.

 

_Being friends._

 

He feels a pang in his chest when he realises that you'd never be that way with him. There would only be awkward silences, quickly averted gazes and terse sentences.

 

You _could_ have been friends. But he had messed it up.

 

He had let things get complicated between you. He had kissed you, and later… He wasn't really proud of the way he handled things after that, either.

 

He winces as he remembers the hurt that had flashed in your eyes.

 

_He broke everything he touched._

 

He shakes his head, pushing his hands deeper into his pockets as he leans against the wall.

 

But he could fix this. Maybe. He had to try.

 

He clears his throat, turning away from the mirror with a smile fixed to his face.

 

Your laughter suddenly dies down, leaving the air empty and heavy. Your eyes when they meet his are no longer smiling. The expression in them is hard. Stony.

 

"You alright?" He ventures, gesturing towards your arm where it is still stained red.

 

"Yeah. Fine. Not my blood", you say, lifting your hand up to give him a better view.

 

"Right."

 

"Right."

 

Sam seems to sense the tension in the air.

 

"Hey, you hungry?" Sam asks you. "I was gonna go pick up something."

 

"No. Thanks, Sam."

 

"You need anything, Dean?" He looks at his brother.

 

"Nah, I'm good." He waves him away.

 

"Okay, then. I'll get going." Sam takes off.

 

You follow him out the door, watching him run rather than walk to the Impala before opening the door to your own room.

 

You hear his footsteps before you see him. They are light, hesitant, and they pause at the door. You don't turn, instead walking over to the washbasin and turning the tap on.

 

"Hey."

 

There is a smile on his lips when you turn to glance at him, the sort of half-smile that makes your heart accelerate. You quickly turn back.

 

He walks in, his hands tucked inside his pockets.

 

"You have a minute?"

 

You nod, letting the water run over your hands, rubbing vigorously against the spots where the blood has crusted. Wiping your hands on a towel, you walk over to the bed. You sit down on the edge of the bed, folding your hands on your lap. You hear the soft click as he shuts the door. The bed sags and bounces slightly as he sits down next to you.

 

"I wanted to apologise."

 

"For what?" You let an bitter edge creep into your words.

 

"Everything." He leans forward, his hands covering his face, running over his chin. "Especially for what I said last night. I could've said it better." His eyes flicker to yours.

 

You give him a quick glance, but something in his eyes makes it impossible to turn away. Your eyes lock onto them, the rhythm of your heart faltering.

 

"You deserve better than that. You deserve an explanation."

 

"Explain away." You straighten yourself.

 

He drops his gaze, and you see him struggle to find words. Finally he takes a deep breath, and begins.

 

"You know, this… whatever we have going on between us, it's not good. I mean, this would never work. Us being in the hunting business and all. It won’t be great to let feelings get in the way."

 

 _Feelings._ Were there any?

 

"We're both hunters now. And this is how a hunter's life will always be. Always on the move. Never settling down." He sighs. "God knows our life is complicated enough as is. We should at least try to keep everything else simple. Professional."

 

He stands up from his place, walking over to the window to stare into the distance.

 

"So when I said it was a mistake, that's all I meant. I meant it would be a mistake for us to complicate things. Let's just keep it simple, you know, just hunters, hunting together, having each other's backs…" 

 

 _He's right,_ you think. It would be foolish to hope for anything more. You aren't sure you can always keep your emotions in check, but you could try.

 

You walk over to where he stands.

 

"I understand", you say softly.

 

He turns to face you, his expression anxious.

 

"So we're cool, then?"

 

His eyes are wide, searching.

 

"Yeah." It’s a struggle to get the words out, but you manage it. "Yeah, we're cool."

 

His lips split into a smile, and you find yourself melting, a warm, fuzzy feeling making its home inside your chest. Surprising yourself, you reach out to him, wrapping your hands around his waist and drawing him close in a hug. He reacts a second later, his own hands coming up to encircle your body, his chin resting on the top of your head. You smile as you smell the old leather smell of his jacket, the faint lingering whiff of whiskey. His arms around you feel protective, reassuring. As you begin to pull away, he tightens his hold. You feel a sudden flutter in your chest.

 

You pull away from the hug to look up at his eyes. They are clouded, his lips slightly parted. You become aware of your heart hammering away in your chest, your knees suddenly feeling like jelly and a heat spreading through your body.

 

"Dean."

 

You don't know who starts it. All you know is that a heartbeat later, you are kissing him, and he is kissing you, his hand cupping your cheek, tilting your head to allow his mouth to move gently over yours, your hands moving up his chest and over his shoulders to tangle at the back of his neck, your fingers straying over to his short cropped hair.

 

You break the kiss only to breathe.

 

"I can't promise you anything", he says, his voice breathless, his hand cradling your face, his eyes searching yours.

 

 

"I know", you breathe.

 

As soon as the words leave your mouth, he closes the gap again. And this time, you know there will be no turning back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think!


	41. Inferno (Part I)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late (I know, again) update. Hope you enjoy this.  
> It's the good stuff, peeps.
> 
> For any *innocent* readers who might be reading this, there be smut ahead.

"I _can't promise you anything."_  
  
He says it like a warning. Like he is someone you should stay away from.  
  
His fingers are still warm on your cheek, and the way he draws his thumb gently over your skin makes your pulse quicken.  
  
You forget to breathe.  
  
The way he holds you, the way he looks into your eyes, the way his lips remain parted and the way his breath blows heavy between them--  
  
They are an invitation.  
  
A feeling rises from your chest and tightens in your throat.  
  
He can't promise you anything.  
  
He can't promise you that there will ever be anything more between you.  
  
He can't promise romantic dates, or that when you wake up in the morning, his will be the face that you see beside you in the bed.  
  
He can't promise you that there will be a tomorrow, or that you would share it with him.  
  
He can't promise you the thousand other things that normal couples could have.  
  
But he could give you this one night, consequences be damned.  
  
You close your eyes.  
  
You want it. You want him.  
  
And you don’t want to think about tomorrow. Not yet.  
  
You nod.  
  
_"I know. "_  
  
When the words leave your mouth, you feel him draw you closer to him. His thumb traces your bottom lip.  
  
His lips capture yours again and the kisses turn from light and gentle to something else.  
  
He takes your breath from you, drinking it in through your mouth as if it were the most intoxicating wine he's ever tasted.  
  
When he breaks away, it's for air.  
  
He walks you to the bed. He asks for permission with his eyes and you grant it.  
  
You fall with him.  
  
His hot breath blows against the curve of your neck before his lips trace it. His kisses are light, barely there. You bury your face in his shoulder, kissing the crook of his neck, demanding more.  
  
A soft whisper of your name falls from his lips and his eyes shut.  
  
He opens his mouth, letting his tongue dart out to taste your skin.  
  
You shudder.  
  
His hand at your waist moves to the side of your hip, sliding under the shirt to feel the warmth of your flesh. His touch leaves you breathless.  
  
Breathless because it's too much.  
  
Breathless because it's too little.  
  
His tongue dips into the hollow of your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point.  
  
A sigh escapes you.  
  
He passes his tongue over the point again, smiling as he feels you shudder. He closes his lips around the point, sucking on your skin.  
  
You moan.  
  
He bites down gently, taking your skin between his teeth.  
  
You whimper.  
  
His tongue smooths over the area, soothing the dull pain.  
  
You trail kisses up his neck and along his jaw, feeling the stubble on his chin.  
  
"Dean", you murmur against his skin.  
  
His nose nuzzles your neck and buries itself in your hair as his hand travels to your waist. He lifts you up and rolls so you are lying on top of him, your hair spilling over his chest.  
  
He sits up.  
  
Your hands find his shoulders, feeling the muscle beneath layers of fabric, using his frame to support yourself.  
  
His hands fly to the front your shirt, lingering for a while before beginning their work. As each button comes undone, his tongue reaches into the recesses of your mouth.  
  
He kindles a fire, and it burns slow and hot.  
  
Every touch sets you on fire. Flames burst into life in the wake of his fingers.  
  
You melt.  
  
The top buttons out of the way, he reaches out and tugs your shirt aside, exposing your shoulder. His mouth descends to taste your bare skin there. You bite your lip as his open mouth moves over your collarbone, and then further down.  
  
He drags the shirt down your arms and tosses it to the floor. He stops to look at you, to take in the tousled hair and glazed over eyes, to commit them to memory.  
  
You take advantage of the pause.  
  
Your hands push his jacket off his shoulders and down his arms. He lets you remove it, torn from his body and tossed across the room. His shirt follows a frantic minute later.  
  
You feel his bare skin under your fingers.  
  
_Sweaty. Hot._  
  
You let your hands roam, learning the contours of his body, the hills and the valleys.  
  
His fingers reach for your bra strap, dragging it down, his lips tracing the curve of your shoulder to the gentle swell of your breast. His thumb rubs along its underside and grazes your nipple, which responds immediately by hardening under his touch.  
  
He hums in satisfaction as he rolls it between fingers-- not hard enough to make it hurt, but enough to make pleasure shoot through your body all the way to the tips of your toes. His tongue replaces his fingers, giving a few experimental licks that make your nails dig into his shoulder. Satisfied, he takes the nipple into his mouth.  
  
Your hand buries itself in his hair as you bite your lip, trying to keep your moans from spilling out.  
  
His tongue is a rasp against its sensitivity.  
  
The way you writhe in his arms and the way you arch makes him want to not go so slow. But he has to.  
  
It's your first time, he reminds himself. Tonight should be about you, not him.  
  
But when you shift impatiently in his lap, you grind against his growing hardness. He has to bite back a growl.  
  
So he gently lowers you to the bed and hovers above you, propping himself up on his elbows. He has to take a moment to collect his breath.

Your jeans are removed easily, dragged down your legs and tossed aside in a flash. Your hands shake as they try to do the same to him, fumbling over his belt buckle.

He is patient, leaning his forehead against yours as you unzip him with trembling fingers. You focus on his steady breathing, feeling Your own heartbeat slow down. You drag it down, down past his hips, past his thighs. He helps you get it off.  
  
You let your hands roam over his chest and down to the toned muscles of his abdomen. Your fingers flutter over his skin, and he sucks in a breath.

Your lips meet again, and the kisses turn hungry. The sound of heavy breathing and smacking lips fill the air. His fingers stray down your body, down to that achy spot between your legs. As his thumb grazes your inner thigh, your legs part for him on their own. The heat of his fingers meets the wetness at your core. The flimsy fabric gives way before his greedy fingers. His touch ghosts over the sensitive bud. The deep sigh that rises from you encourages him. His thumb traces a lazy circle _there_ , right on that spot where the bundle of nerves congregate, shooting a pang of pleasure through you.

He feels you lean and arch into his touch. The sounds that come from your parted lips-- the sounds he never thought you capable of making-- set fire to his veins and sends his blood boiling. His fingers, coated in slick, continue their relentless movement as he makes you moan, and pant, and writhe.

"Dean."

You give up his name in a deep sigh as he strokes you, taking you to heights you never knew existed.

"Come for me, baby girl."

The whisper of the dirty words in your ear and the sound of his voice-- gravelly, seductive, _hot_ \-- is enough.

With a brush of his thumb, he sends you over the edge, crashing from the delicious high, your body shuddering beneath him, your toes curling in the sheets.

When you open your eyes, his face is what you see. His forehead is slick with sweat, his pupils blown wide with lust as he takes in your flushed face.

You don't look satisfied, he notes. You look like you want more. Much more.

He doesn't dare to act without confirmation. He waits for you to come down from your high, for your ragged breathing to slow down.

"We can stop here", he offers. "Take it slow. We don't have to go all the way."

You wrap your hands around him, burying your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in his scent, feeling his racing pulse.

"Don't you dare", you whisper, your lips teasingly close to his ear, your voice husky. "Don't you dare take this slow."

That's all he needs to hear before he pins you underneath him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didyoulikeit? Didyouhateit? Tellme!!!


	42. Inferno (Part II)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hadn't realized that it has been three months since I last updated. This chapter was hard to write, not because it was hard to write (does that make any sense?) but because of my notorious procrastination and one hell of a writer's block. I would type and delete, type and delete until I grew frustrated with the whole thing and just pushed it away. But when I looked at one of my older drafts, it suddenly seemed so sucky anymore. And I decided to just post it.
> 
> So. Read on. 
> 
> There's smut in this chapter, you have been warned.

He was the one who kindled the fire, but you feed it. Abandoning thought you give way to instinct, touching and kissing and exploring as your body tells you to.

 

He is easy to please, you soon learn.

 

Everything you do seems right.

 

Every touch of your fingers, every brush of your lips has him breathing hard and leaning in to you. You delight in each new discovery, finding more and more spots on him for you to tease, to draw half-strangled sighs from his mouth.

 

When you trail kisses up the side of his neck, he buries his face in your chest. When you lips trace the curve of his ear, his fingers dig into your flesh, his palms searing your skin where they touch your waist. When you draw his earlobe between your teeth and swirl your tongue against the tip—

 

You revel in how your name falls from his lips then. A curse. A prayer. A hiss that is equal measures pleasure and pain.

 

You can feel it. His arousal, his need for you in his hard length that presses against your lower belly when you move under him.

 

The ache in that deepest part of you intensifies. It makes you move in ways that you never thought you could.

 

You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles behind him, drawing him close to where you want him. You feel the pressure of his cock straining against his boxers.

 

You capture his lips and run your hands over his sweaty skin.

 

His hips move with yours, creating delicious friction that leaves you hot and panting.

 

A short grunt issues from his mouth as you arch into him.

 

_More,_ you tell him, using your body to speak things you could never say with words.

 

Your hands travel down his waist and down his hips to find the edge of his boxers. Your eyes meet his, asking for permission.

 

_Can I?_

 

Your face is flushed, your breathing ragged as you fumble with the final layer of fabric that separates you from him.

 

It's no easy task.

 

Your fingers are trembling with nervous excitement, and the way his hips jerk every time your clumsy hands bump into him doesn't help things.

 

He supports himself on an elbow, using his other hand to brush away a strand of hair from your face.

 

When your eyes meet, he presses a soft kiss on your lips. A kiss that lingers, a kiss that says...

 

_Let me._

 

You move your hands to his shoulders.

 

His length springs free.

 

You can't help staring down at him.

 

Embarrassment colours your cheeks red as you try to tear your eyes away.

 

He chuckles, pressing a gentle kiss to your jawline. Then another, and another.

 

"Look all you want", he whispers in your ear, his voice low and dripping with honey.

 

You feel heat rush to your cheeks.

 

You look up at his face to see his smug smile, a hint of mischief in his clear green eyes.

 

_Damn him._

 

You lock your fingers around the base of his neck, bucking your hips into him.

 

His smile disappears and his eyes squeeze shut, a low moan escaping his lips.

 

You close your eyes, letting your instinct dictate the rhythm as you move against him.

 

His hands fist the sheets on either side of you.

 

"You're killing me, sweetheart."

 

His ragged breathing sounds in your ears. His chest is heaving.

 

You feel him fumbling, searching for something, even as he covers your mouth in a hot, searing kiss. You hear the rip of foil.

 

"Are you ready, baby?" He asks.

 

There's a sharp ache within you that tells you that you are.

 

"Yes", you breathe, not daring to open your eyes lest this should all be a dream. "Yes, I'm ready."

 

"Relax."

 

He presses the tip of his cock against your entrance.

 

"I won't hurt you, okay? Just relax. "

 

But relaxing is the last thing you can do. You are wound up like a spring, with need and with trepidation.

 

"It's okay. Just breathe."

 

You cling to him, letting your clenched muscles ease up.

 

You feel him enter, feel yourself stretch.

 

He waits, searching your face for any sign of pain.

 

He lays a kiss on your forehead.

 

He sinks himself into you, deep. Going white hot.

 

"Dean."

_  
_

When he moves, it's slow and gentle. Your head rolls back to sink into the pillow as he peppers your neck with kisses, all the while keeping up the steady rhythm of his hips.

 

It feels amazing. It feels like your blood is slowly, slowly turning into liquid metal that moves through your veins, setting your body on fire, the heat building up with every thrust.

 

But you are greedy.

 

You move with him, squeezing him with your thighs, fanning the flames. Your nails dig into his back.

 

The broken sound of your name from his lips is music to you.

 

You buck and arch and roll your hips, testing his limits, testing his resolve.

 

His hand roams over your body, cupping a breast and squeezing, his kisses turning more desperate by the second.

 

He wills himself to slow down, to be as gentle as be can be, but _you_ \--

 

You drive him crazy, pouring your need out into him, making his steady pace falter.

 

His hips jerk.

 

"Oh, baby."

 

The words that leave his mouth are mostly incoherent. But you hear your name, said over and over again as he loses control, his thrusts coming faster and harder now, hitting a spot that makes your toes curl and your eyes roll into your head.

 

Pleasure shoots through your insides as a tingle before tightening into a coil somewhere deep inside you.

  
He feels your climax coming, feels it like the tremors of an earthquake, your walls beginning to pulse around him, your nails digging deeper into his flesh.

 

He holds your peak at bay, slowing down, drawing it out as long as he can.

 

But you don't let him.

 

When he retreats, you advance, hips rising to meet his, eagerly finding the friction he tries to deny.

 

He slides in and out.

 

Once. Twice.

 

It rains fire. Stars burst across your vision as you crash from the high, free-falling from the peak.

 

He curses as your walls tighten around him. Hands gripping the sheets, he rides the waves of your pleasure, the sound of his name falling from your lips in a high-pitched whine spurring on his release.

 

His lips find yours in the moment of his climax. He pours his moans into your mouth as he comes.

* * *

 

You are running.

 

Blind. Barefoot.

 

Running down a set of stairs.

 

The darkness around you seems to quiver and shift, like some age-old monster stirring in its sleep.

 

You run, faster and faster, until the pace of your feet striking cold stone matches the rhythm of your pounding heart.

 

As your eyes adjust to the darkness you see the steps go a long way down, winding their way into a dark abyss that recedes the further you climb down.

 

Your short breaths condense in the frigid air.

 

Muffled voices sound from down below-- what seem to be human voices, faint and grotesquely distorted by their echoing on stone.

 

With no sense of where you are going, you keep running, running towards the noise even though every step makes your stomach clench tighter.

 

It feels like forever until a faint orange glow begins to settle on the walls.

 

You stumble on the last step.

 

A long corridor stretches out before you. Torches burn on the walls, their flickering flames dancing and leaping. From the other side of the corridor comes a chill that seeps through your clothes and freezes your bones.

 

A soft footstep behind you, a ghost of breath on the back of your neck.

 

You whip around.

 

Dean steps forward, green eyes glowing in the near darkness.

 

“Hey.” He smiles.

 

“Dean”, you say, taking a step towards him, relief washing over you. “What are you doing here?”

 

“Could ask the same to you.” He tilts his head.

 

“I-- I don’t know. Where are we?”

 

“You haven’t been here before huh?” He leans against a wall, the torchlight playing on the angles of his face. “This is hell.”

 

You stare at him blankly for a moment.

 

“Really. This is hell”, he repeats.

 

“Why are we here?” You ask, panic gripping your chest, staring at the endless corridor, the endless rows of torches.

 

“Are you scared?” He asks, his eyes softening. “Come here.”

 

He opens his arms.

 

You walk into his embrace and his arms wrap around you. He feels warm. You bury your face in his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. He sighs and his breath blows into your hair.

 

He feels safe. He feels like home.

 

You lift your head to find him gazing at you. His hand shifts from your back to the nape of your neck and his fingers tangle in your hair.

 

He smiles, and you feel a chill crawl up your spine.

 

He looks different somehow. Colder, a glint of steel in his eyes.

 

You shiver, realising that his warmth is gone. His heart has gone silent.

 

His smile grows wider and you feel your stomach clench.

 

His hand tightens on your hair and he yanks it so hard your head jerks back, your eyes stinging with the sudden prick of tears.

 

He throws your body against the wall, turning around to hold you against the stone surface. His hand finds your neck. His fingers close around your throat and his body presses against yours.

 

His body is cold. His weight is crushing.

 

He tightens his grip and you feel his nails digging into your skin, the pain of the scratches nothing compared to the burning in your lungs as they try to breathe, the ache in your throat as you gasp for air.

 

In the faint glow of the distant torches, his green eyes turn pitch black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews please... They're my life breath.


	43. Embers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluff. Down and fluff, with a side of interrupting moose. That's about it.

_Coal black eyes stare into your own, the light of the flickering torches reflecting in them, the flames flailing and slithering like fiery serpents._

 

_"It's okay", he whispers, leaning in._

 

_Your eyes burn, starting to brim over, your fingers uselessly scratching at the hand wrapped around your throat. There is not a shred of mercy in him, not a hint of humanity in the smirk set on his lips._

 

No, no, no…

 

_This couldn’t be happening. Not now, not after…_

 

_A buzz settles in your ears as your sight starts to blur. Pinpricks of light appear, one by one, filling your vision. The ground disappears beneath your feet. The weight on your chest gets heavier, dragging you down, down, crushing the air out of your lungs…_

 

Light. Warmth. Softness.

 

A comforting weight over your body.

 

"Hey", a drowsy voice calls.

 

 Sunlight filtering from between the curtains plays across his face, shifting light and shadow in his angles, adding to the glow of his green eyes.

 

Relief floods your body.

 

_A dream. It was a dream._

 

"You okay? You've been staring at me far too long." He shifts closer, squinting his eyes to scrutinise your face.

 

The movement wakes you from your trance.

 

"Well, I can't really blame you", he says, twirling a strand of your hair around his fingers. "If I was me, I would want to stay in bed all day looking at me, too."

 

You roll your eyes, turning away.

 

"Not so fast, princess."

 

He tugs at your arm, drawing you back to him.

 

"C'mon. You know you want a piece of this pie." He wiggles his eyebrows.

 

You let out a laugh at his antics. It's tempting. Just to let yourself be drawn back to bed, to whatever deviousness he has planned for the both of you. To give in.

 

Instead you grab the pillow from under your head and smack his face with it.

 

"Ow, what the hell!"

 

He swipes it aside to look at you, and you just have time to register the mixture of bewilderment on his face before you hit him with the next.

 

"That was for being a narcissistic jerk", you yell at him.

 

"Hey!"

 

He catches the pillow as it bounces off his chest, rising to his knees on the bed, sheets falling away from his naked torso.

 

"Oh… You're gonna regret this, sweetheart", he says, aiming the pillow at you.

 

You roll out of the bed just in time, and the pillow misses you by several feet. Armed with fresh ammunition, you peek over the bed only to duck as another comes whishing pass you.

 

"You're bad at this, Dean." You shake your head, clutching a pillow in your hand, poised to throw.

 

"I don’t really mind", he retorts, tilting his head at you. "You’re giving me quite a show there."

 

You look down.

 

_Oh._

 

There not a shred of clothing on your body. Heat rises to your cheeks as you realise that you have been practically dancing naked all this time.

 

And he takes advantage of the pause. He edges his way to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and sweeping you back to bed. Caught off guard, you squeal as he tumbles in with you, using his weight to hold you in place. You smack his face with your pillow. He shields himself from your blow with one hand and picks up a pillow with the other. A blow lands squarely on your face.

 

"Whoops." You breathe, staring at the downy feathers floating around your head like a cloud.

 

"Whoops is right", he says, looking dejectedly at the torn pillow in his hand.

 

You seize the opportunity, slamming the pillow into his face so hard he almost loses his balance.

 

Almost.

 

As you try to wriggle your way out from under him, he grabs you by the waist, bringing you back. He tears the pillow from your hand, throwing it across the room, far out of your reach. His fingers find their way to your sides.

 

"Dean, stop", you squeal as his fingers dance over your skin. "No, stop! That tickles!"

 

The mischievous glint in his eyes tells you that that was his intention all along. He holds you down as he attacks you without mercy as you gasp, laugh and pant. Finally, when he pauses for long enough for you to draw a breath, you notice how his cheeks are just a little red. You gaze at him between your odd giggles, noticing how his hair is in disarray, a few tiny feathers caught in between.

 

He is laughing, you realise. The sound is deep, rich, and so rare. You can't remember ever having heard him laugh like that before. Not with so much abandon.

 

"You're doing it again. Staring." His voice is soft, and his laughter has mellowed to a slight smile. But it does nothing to calm your racing heart.

 

He opens his mouth to say something again, but you don’t want him to talk. Not now.

 

You clasp your fingers behind his neck, rising up.

 

His eyes linger on your lips, turning a darker shade as he lowers himself, meeting your mouth halfway.

 

Your breaths mingle with his, and as his chest presses against yours, you feel his heartbeat, as fast as your own, nightmares of hell forgotten for the moment.

 

Neither of you hear the knocks.

 

The door bursts open.

 

"What the hell, Sammy?" Dean looks over his shoulder and groans.

 

Sam stands at the entrance, flushed, gun in hand. His eyes dart over to your forms, obviously naked, to the sheets strewn all over the floor, to the still settling cloud of down.

 

"Oh, I thought I heard… screaming. I thought--", he stammers.

 

He clears his throat.

 

"Never mind."

 

As Sam shuts the door behind him, Dean starts his rant.

 

"I don't know how he manages to turn up every time--"

 

You shut him up with a kiss. You don’t want to hear him talk. Not yet.

 

He lets you push him on his back, shuddering as you pepper kisses up his collarbone. You let yourself drown in the warmth, in the sensation of him.

 

A few rooms away, Sam paces around the room, berating himself, waiting for his brother to come back.

 

He waits for a long time.


	44. Mirror

The diner is fairly empty for this time of the day. You close your eyes for a moment, focusing on smell of coffee rising with steam, and the sounds of Sam's fork clinking against the plate as he digs into his salad. Across from you, Dean takes another bite of his burger, his cheeks puffing out as he chews. It is oddly endearing to see a grown man eat like that. It reminds you that some part of him will always remain a child, no matter how many monsters he has killed or how many deaths he had to see.  
   
You enjoy that aspect of him, you realize. His ability to completely dissociate himself from his job and be his usual dorky self. His ability to enjoy what was in front of him, not letting shadows of the past or the worries of the future dampen his spirit. You like it.  
   
Envy it, even.  
   
You remember the strangely vivid nightmare of the morning. You had forgotten all about it till this moment, but the scenes return now, playing in your mind over and over.  
   
"You okay?" Dean's voice cuts through.  
   
You raise your eyes to find him gazing at you, eyebrow raised in question.  
   
You nod.  
   
He opens his mouth to say something when the shrill tones of a phone ringing pierce the air. Dean places his burger back on the plate and pushes his hand into his jacket, searching around for a minute before withdrawing a phone, its screen lit up.  
   
"Is that Dad's?" Sam asks, dropping his fork back onto his plate.  
   
Dean doesn’t answer. He places the phone in the centre of the table, and pushes the speaker button.  
   
"Hello?"  
   
"Is this John Winchester?"  
   
The voice on the other end is female. In her early 50s, you would guess. A clear English accent.  
   
"No, this is Dean. His son. John Winchester's… passed away."  
   
There is silence at the other end. Sam shifts in his seat, leaning towards the phone, lowering his voice.  
   
"Listen, if this is about a job, then we can take care of it."

* * *

  
Dean lets out a whistle.  
   
"You think that's what she made the deal for?" He asks, tilting his head at the impressive Victorian mansion.  
   
Three storeys tall, it rises majestically from the spread of the well-cared lawn, towers and turrets pointing up at the sky and large bay windows with stained glass looking out to the street like ever-vigilant eyes. The brass nameplate beside the door looks old and tarnished, the letters faded.  
   
"Rosamund Parfit", you read. "Fancy name. Probably born into the money. The deal must've been for something else."  
   
The knocker is a heavy brass ring fixed to the wood, ornate shapes carved on it. Sam raises it and knocks, twice. The sounds echo several times, growing fainter and fainter before dying down.  
   
The door opens.  
   
The face that peers from behind the chain is wrinkled, but strangely captivating. Silver hair falls over the temples and curls softly at the base of the neck where a string of pearls rest. Steel grey eyes flicker over each of your faces from behind rimmed glasses.  
   
Dean steps forward.  
   
"Hi. I'm Dean Winchester. We talked on the phone. This is my brother Sam, and this is…"  
   
You interrupt him, introducing yourself by name.  
   
"She works with us", Dean explains.  
   
"Oh, it's you!" Her eyes light up in understanding. Sliding back the bolt to open the door, she steps aside, letting you in.  
   
The drawing room seems strangely bare, the furniture seemingly too sparse to fill the enormity of the room. A coffee table stands in the middle, surrounded by sofas on three sides. A vase too large for the table holds a confused mix of red and white roses. An array of paintings decorate the walls, a thin film of dust deposited on each of them, their guilded frames beginning to tarnish.  
   
She invites you to sit.  
   
"You live here alone?" You ask as she settles into a seat across from you.  
   
"I suppose you could say that", she says. "Although I'm not completely alone. There's Denver, my butler. He stays with me, takes care of the household. And Mary, the maid. She comes and goes."  
   
"Would you mind telling us when the hallucinations started, Mrs Parfit?" Sam asks, leaning forward in his seat.  
   
"About four months ago", she answers. "And it's Rosamund, please. Or Rose if you prefer."  
   
"And when is…" You find yourself searching for the right words. She looks directly at you, her steely gaze fixed on your own.  
   
"When my contract is ending? In exactly one week." She offers you a shaky smile, pressing her lips together.  
   
"I see them when I sleep." She closes her eyes, her forehead furrowing. "Sometimes, even when I'm awake, I can hear them. Hear their snarls, the sound of their paws."  
   
"Hellhounds", Dean says.  
   
She nods.  
   
"Come to drag me down to hell. They're hungry for my flesh, I know it. I'm not afraid to die, you know." She straightens herself. Her voice quivers for the first time. "It's what comes after that I'm afraid of."  
   
"Well." Dean places his cup back with a loud clink on the glass table. "If you knew what was coming, why did you make the deal in the first place?"  
   
She doesn't reply.  
   
"Could you tell us what deal you made?" You ask.  
   
"Is it important to--", she begins, but Dean cuts her off.  
   
"We're about to risk our necks to get you out of trouble that you brought on yourself, so I'd say it's pretty damn important we know everything there is to know."  
   
She looks down, linking her hands together on her lap before clearing her throat.  
   
"It was my son, Jeremy. He was in his prime. He was following in his dad's footsteps, working in real estate. He was doing so well. He had married a beautiful young woman, and they'd just had their first baby." She stops, a sigh escaping her lips. "And then he was diagnosed with cancer."  
   
"They gave him two years to live. Said there wasn't anything they could do. He didn't tell anyone else. He came to me, one night, and broke down. He told me he didn't want to die. Told me he didn't want to lose everything-- his wife, his son... "  
   
"Every time he cried it was as if a knife was being twisted in my chest. You don't know how a parent feels when her child is in pain. You might, someday. I hope not. It makes you do things you never thought you would do."  
   
"And so you made the deal", you say.  
   
"That man… He seemed like a gentleman. Somewhat short. Handsome, you could say. Expensive taste in whiskey." She chuckles, eyes wandering around the room. "It wasn't until his eyes turned a gleaming red right in front of my eyes that I started to believe him. He said he could make everything alright. He could do for my son what no doctor could do. In return, all he wanted was a little something. To be collected 10 years later. I was desperate."  
   
She wipes the tears away with her hand. When she speaks again, her voice is steady, unwavering.  
   
"If I could go back to that day, I would make the same choice again. I would give up anything for my son."  
   
Her gaze burns with sincerity. You look away from her.  
   
"Excuse me", she clears her throat. "I want some tea. Could I offer some to you?"  
   
You nod, relieved for the break in the tense atmosphere.  
   
As she disappears into a hallway, heels clicking softly on the floor, Dean rises from his seat with a sigh, stretching himself, wandering around the room, surveying the antiques decorating it with a half-interested gaze.  
   
"Fancy", he mutters.  
   
He stops before an ornate mirror, almost six foot tall, framed in silver. From where you can sit, you can see his reflection. He catches your eye in the mirror, giving you a half-smile before moving away.  
   
And that's when you see it. Just a flicker of forms that lasts less than half a second. _Black eyes._  
   
You are frozen in shock, unable to even let out the gasp stuck in your throat.  
   
_No, this couldn't be happening_.  
   
The nightmare comes back. The image of Dean, his eyes black and a cruel smirk set into his lips tightening his fingers around you as you slowly choked.  
   
She returns then, carrying a tray laden with a teapot and four small china cups. You fight to calm your nerves, telling yourself over and over that it was an illusion. A trick of light. But the nagging voice in the back of your head wouldn't go away.  
   
She finishes pouring the tea, hand poised as if to offer the cups to you.  
   
"Excuse me", you hear yourself say. "But could you tell me about that mirror? It looks very interesting."  
   
As if on cue, every head in the room turns. You reach into your pocket to pull out the small silver flask.  
   
"Oh, that", she says. "Not a very common thing to have in your living room, is it?"  
   
You unscrew the cap, tipping the contents into the cup closest to Dean.  
   
"I hate that thing, to be honest. In fact, I should say I hate almost all of the decorations here. Too garish for my taste. They are all more to my late husband's liking. Now _he_ was a man who liked to show off what he had."  
   
She sighs, as if remembering something from a long time ago.  
   
By the time they turn black, you have managed to hide the flask under your palm.  
   
You watch, heart thumping in your chest as Dean reaches for his cup. He lifts it to his lips, taking a sip.  
   
Nothing.  
   
You wait, watching as he drains his cup, placing it back on the glass table top with a soft clink.  
   
You rise from your place, walking over to the mirror, standing so that you can see Dean's seated form in the reflection. You run a finger over the silver carvings on the frame, pretending to study them as you watch Dean.  
   
Just to convince yourself that what you saw was nothing.  
   
But he changes.  
   
His skin melts away into his bones. Flames appear, licking at the skin at the base of his throat before leaping onto his face, spreading themselves over his form. His lips burn away, leaving the teeth exposed, hideous and scary. He turns almost nonchalantly and as before, catches your gaze in the mirror.  
   
"You okay?" He asks, lipless mouth moving.  
   
_Black eyes_ , is all you can think.  
   
You close your eyes, head spinning.  
   
When you open them, everything is back to where it should be. Green eyes gaze into yours, a frown appearing between his brows.  
   
You become aware of the sweat dripping from your forehead, trickling down the side of your face.  
   
He rises, and in a second, his arms are wrapped around your teetering form. You want to turn to him, to bury your face in his shoulder and smell the old leather smell, letting yourself get wrapped up in his warmth.  
   
You pry his fingers from yourself.  
   
"Don't touch me," you whisper, hating the sound of your own voice, hating the look in his eyes as you say the words.

**Author's Note:**

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